Ask For Another Day
by silverluna
Summary: Carlton Lassiter has lost 36 hours of his life. Waking up disoriented on a beach is where it starts. Before long, he thinks he's being watched. Then he's accused of a serious crime. Desperate, he asks Shawn for help, putting everyone at risk. NOT SLASH.
1. Prologue: A Creature There In Darkness

Summary: Detective Carlton Lassiter has lost 36 hours of his life. Waking up disoriented on a beach is where it starts. Before long, he thinks he's being watched. Then he's accused of a serious crime. Desperate, he goes Shawn for help recovering his memory, needing to discover if he is guilty or innocent. But the people responsible want to make sure that Lassiter never gets his memory back, putting everyone's lives in danger.

Author's Note:  Hi, my name is silverluna and this is my first _Psych_ fanfiction. Now before you run away screaming and boycotting, I want to say that I have written other types of fanfiction before. (I am also continuing a _Bones_ fanfiction I started about a year ago.) I recently became a fan of the show _Psych _and have become addicted to reading various fanfictions about the show. The other night I had a dream about Lassiter, in his bed, being shaken awake by a figure clad only black who was there to do him harm. When I woke up, I started writing, mapping out a great outline for a few story that will be Lassiter-centric, with Shawn being the second most important, and the other characters also being involved. A note on geography: Leadbetter Beach is a real place in Santa Barbra, CA. However, I do not know how far it would actually be to the actual setting of _Psych_, so I guessed. Also, Leadbetter Beach is advertised as a heavily populated area, but for purposes of this prologue/ story, Lassiter finds himself in a space devoid of other people and must look to find some.

This is NOT a slash fic.

I would consider this story a Hurt/Comfort/ Whumpage (to some degrees) Mystery/ Suspense/ Friendship story. Rating is for language and general whump.

Main Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Shawn Spencer

Other Characters: Karen Vick, Juliet O'Hara, Burton "Gus" Guster, Henry, other SBPD officers and original characters

Pairings: Shawn/ Juliet (minor)

Disclaimer: I am not the creator of or writer for the USA TV show _Psych_. This story is purely for fun and though I wish I could claim it is making me a ton of cash, I cannot. (Because it's not!) I also do not own the TV show _Cops._ The titles of the chapters are lines from various songs, wish I also do not own (but love listening to).

Lastly, I would like to express my gratitude to the great authors of other Psych fanfiction stories who have helped to inspire me to do great Psych things. Hope you know who you are! Please read & review (every little bit helps!) and enjoy. Thank you in advance to reviewers!

**Ask For Another Day**

by silverluna

**Prologue: A Creature There In Darkness Lies**

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Brightness. So bright. Heat on the skin. The sun was in the middle of the sky, meaning it must be around noon. The sky so bright, a bright blue light. Like denim, or the ocean on a cool September morning. Stark. He squinted upwards. He became aware slowly, as if just waking up, and then walking through a fog. The edges of objects were less and less blurred.

It was day, afternoon, noontime, by way of the sun. _Okay, okay. Day. Wait. Wait. Was it the same day? The same day as . . . _

Carlton Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut tight, searching for any thread of memory, no matter how insignificant. There was, there was . . . nothing. _Oh, god. _

He looked around for landmarks, a street sign, anything that seemed familiar. Palm trees, webby storefronts, a long gray sidewalk dusted with sand. He continued along the sidewalk, which was leading to a beach, his mouth bone dry as he realized he had no idea how long he had been walking. _Okay, okay._ He knew his name, that was good. He knew he was Head Detective at the Santa Barbara Police Department. He knew his badge number. He knew how many guns he stashed in his apartment. _Eight._ In his head he could see the face of Juliet O'Hara, his junior partner in the force, and Chief Karen Vick's, Buzz McNab, and other officers and detectives. But of the last few hours, he couldn't see any of it. Maybe the explanation was simple: he'd had too much to drink, and blacked out. But if that was the case, why hadn't he passed out on the couch in his apartment, or his own bed? Or worst case scenario, at a table in a bar? Surely, the bartender would have shook his shoulder, woken him, gotten him a cab. It didn't make any sense that he would be walking down towards a beach in the middle of the day. Shouldn't he be at work? Was anyone . . . missing him? Was it a day off?

His stomach lurched. _Oh, no._ A stab of warmth, then cold. Fluid shot into his mouth and he bent and threw up in the sand. It was clear and tasteless; Lassiter's hand went to his forehead. _God, god. _What was happening to him? He squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried to think. _Maybe I should sit, access the situation_, he thought. He couldn't see a bench anywhere; turning his head in so many directions made his head ache. His ears began to hum and then he felt vibrations behind his eyes. Lassiter emitted a low moan as he sank to his knees, waiting for the sudden pain to pass. With his eyes closed, he tried to think. Still, nothing.

The pain dissipated. Lassiter opened his eyes, and for the first time, looked himself over. His arms were bare, which was unusual, because he was always wearing a suit, jacket and tie; he even considered that attire "casual". He wore a red t-shirt, one that he didn't recall owning. And black jeans that seemed new, though now the knees were crusted with sand. _I don't own black jeans, do I?_ he thought with a frown. Huh, that was odd. Why would he have left his apartment without shoes? In his mouth a sour taste. There was no way he would have gone out drinking without socks or shoes, let alone dressed like this.

Lassiter tried to remember the very last thing he did before he became aware that he was walking somewhere unfamiliar. He scrunched up his face hard but couldn't shake loose any coherent thoughts. "Dammit!" he said aloud, frowning at how raspy and far away his own voice sounded. He coughed a few times with the same results.

He sat back in the sand. After a few minutes he started patting down his pockets, looking for his wallet, a cell phone. His pockets were empty. No ID, no badge, no money, not even a quarter to put in a pay phone. And no cell phone. Lassiter knew that should he find a pay phone he could just dial 911 and it wouldn't require change. He didn't want to resort to that unless it was absolutely necessary. Maybe there were civilians around who could fill in the blanks in his head. Or a house or a business where he could use a phone. Lassiter got to his feet and started walking again, though for all he knew he could be on a desert rather than a beach. He had been wandering on the sand for a while; he turned and realized the sidewalk was half of a mile back. _That's so odd, odd,_ he thought. He got another funny feeling in his stomach, then his head, and a wave of nausea struck. A shuddering gray, then brown-black wafted up over his face.

Lassiter open his eyes. He had sprawled onto the sand, taking in a few mouthfuls. He eased himself up to a sitting position, wiping off his face and spitting out the sand. _Hell, this isn't good,_ he thought. He patted down his arms and shirt, pushing off loose granules. He noticed that his shirt in places was stiff, like paper mache, and then, there, sticky. And there, sticky. He examined his upturned palm in the sun; his breath stuck in his throat. Smears of blood. Instinctively, he lifted up his t-shirt, looking for signs of wounds. He felt his back, his shoulders, and there, on his stomach, just above his belly button, was a small cut, still oozing.

But on his shirt was so much blood. He hadn't noticed it before because of the shirt's color. _Whose blood is this?_ He touched the cut with his other unbloodied hand; it stung a little but it was hard to imagine it gushing. _But what if it had?_ What if the reason he felt faint and lightheaded was blood loss? He touched the wound again; it was superficial. No, this wasn't all his.

_Dammit._ He needed to get to a phone. He squinted into the sun again, which seemed to be turned on full blast into his face. He took some deep breaths and staggered towards the sun. _No, wait, that isn't the right way._ Dizzy, he sank back to his knees again.

_Maybe I should call for help,_ he considered. It seemed doubtful that he would be heard; he hadn't seen nor heard any people nearby, or even any other signs of life, like vehicles or birds. Plus, he wasn't sure he trusted his voice.

"Help," he tried. It was a hollow sound. "Help," a little louder. The rushing was back in his head. He yelled the word _help_ over the noise in his head, before he curled onto his side. A long silence answered.

_Crap. This is bad. _He needed to get up and find help for himself. Lassiter just wanted to sleep. What if he were concussed? He ran his hands through his hair, checking the back of his head for lumps. Nothing. _God. Dammit!_ He bunched his hands into fists, a rage stretching across the inside of his chest. Why was nothing making sense? He forced himself to his feet, pushing his way back towards the sidewalk, solid ground under his feet. He felt dirty and was soaked with sweat by the time he came in sight of the storefronts he had first seen before wandering onto the beach. The storefronts were empty; he looked in a few windows and the insides seemed unused for a long time. He kept walking, turning a corner he hoped would lead him to a phone, or people. Maybe he could find a police officer . . . he stopped, a dry laugh floating in his mouth that he spat out as a guffaw. Hell, he was a cop.

He took another couple of steps, letting out a cry. Leaning against a wall, he examined the bottom of his bare foot; a three inch piece of broken glass was embedded halfway. Gritting his teeth, Lassiter yanked the glass out. Pain was immediate, blinding, real, shocking his system back into drive. Blood gushed fast. Lassiter stuck his foot gingerly on the ground, searching for something to wrap his foot. Nothing. He knew he'd have to use the t-shirt; what was a little more red on it anyway? Propping his injured foot, Lassiter pulled the t-shirt over his head and tore off the top part, where there wasn't any dried blood. He wrapped the rest of the mess around his waist; eventually he would need to know who belonged to that blood. Lassiter quickly tied the partially clean ripped cloth around his foot. It hurt bad to put his full weight on it, and he knew from the gushing that his makeshift bandage wouldn't last long. Every step rammed pain from the bottom of his foot to the top of his head, but he focused on how much it hurt because it kept him more alert than he'd been all day. Pain, pain, pain, a heart beat.

Lassiter continued to walk. Fatigue was setting in; the sun seemed to hang lower in the sky. Finally he could make out people ahead. Bicycles, kids in Hawaiian shirts and bathing suits, men and women in semiprofessional office clothes, open shops with lots of people coming and going. He was scanning the area for a pay phone when he heard a scream, almost in his left ear. Irritated, he turned with a grimace. A trio a teenagers stood five feet from him, all staring with horror. A girl with short brown hair was pressing a hand to her mouth. Another girl and a boy looked him up and down, neither knowing what to say. Then Lassiter heard someone say, "Hey, dude, are you okay?" He turned his head to a young guy who looked like the surfer type.

"I'm, uh," Lassiter began. His words were too thin. He was starting to feel faint again. Blood was pooling at his feet.

He took a deep breath and forced the words out, stringy and gooey as they were.

"My name is Detective Carlton Lassiter. I'm Head Detective with the Santa Barbara Police Department. I'm injured and I need an ambulance. Please call 911."

Those few sentences took a lot of strength. The world slanted, but if he was falling, Lassiter didn't know.


	2. Chapter 1: Fire and Ice

**Chapter One: Fire and Ice**

_(36 Hours Prior)_

A flash cut across his mind like a streak of lightning. Electrifying, it made him pay attention. A memory followed, though it felt as if it were someone else's. He had been asleep, in his bed. Wearing pajamas, which for him meant boxers and an SBPD t-shirt. Some dream he'd been having. _No_, another shock. _Pay attention, kid._

Asleep, and then jerked awake. A hand shaking his shoulder, gripping it, knocking his head against the headboard. A loud groan from his lips. Then his blue eyes wide open in the dark. Above him, two figures, both dressed in black, wearing ski masks. He had opened his mouth, ready to demand who the figures were and what the hell they thought they were doing there. One of the figures bent and poured something straight into Lassiter's mouth. His eyes widened with shock, choking on the fluid. Before he could react, most of what had been in the glass went down his throat. He spit out the rest. A gloved fist hit his cheek, bouncing his head into the backboard again. He cursed and struggled to get to his feet. He was pinned there, his bed against a wall, with the attackers standing over him, blocking his escape. The figure still grasping his shoulder grabbed him around the neck.

"Get it fast," one of the figures said.

Detective Lassiter found his voice, "Let me go, dirt bag! I'm a cop."

"Hurry up," the first man said. This was the one holding Lassiter's neck.

Lassiter kicked off the blanket and got the first man in the solar plexus with his knee. The hand slid off his neck with a groan.

"Shit!" yelled the second voice.

Lassiter jumped off the bed and pushed the second attacker, who had been reaching for something in his pants pocket, out of his way. He had to get to one of hidden guns.

"Grab him, you idiot!" one of the men yelled.

The man Lassiter had pushed was a few inches shorter and had a smaller build than he did, but he hadn't got a good look at the other. Unlikely that the man could overpower him, but maybe that was the pride or adrenaline talking. Lassiter didn't want to run away but it was dark. It would be different if he could put his hands on a gun, maybe get a warning shot off. Maybe a neighbor could call back-up for him. He was suddenly uneasy that he had turned his back on them for more than a few seconds. He spun for assessment only to receive a nasty punch straight to the throat. He stumbled back, choking and gasping. He tried to speak. "Wha— who—whyy—" More coughing. His mind raced. What were these men doing here? Was it a robbery? No, that wasn't it. He put his hand to his throat, still stumbling backwards. He reached the table with his land line phone. Snatching it, he began to dial. Nine. One.

The phone was smacked out of his hand, which was grabbed and twisted hard in front of him. Lassiter yelled, until a gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

There was a shiver, and the scene in his head started to fade. _No, wait. It's not over yet._ He made himself focus by digging his fingernails into his hand.

He saw the man's eyes, hard dark brown, mean. Lassiter tried to kick again, but it didn't connect. He struggled, to be rewarded with another sharp twist to his wrist. He grunted with pain, and then a sudden stab of fear cut him. He watched the other figure approach, a syringe in hand. The cap was off. This wasn't a robbery. It was an abduction. He made one last effort to escape but the needle went into his arm.

* * *

_(Present Time)_

He slept for a long time. Or maybe it was only an hour or two. When he unglued his eyes, he saw white. A room pungent with disinfectant. White walls, white sheets, a small metal table on wheels next to his bed.

No, this wasn't right. He couldn't stay here. Lassiter sat up fast, grunting when he felt shots of pain in his right shoulder, his wrist, his stomach. His torn shirt was gone, and the cut on his stomach had been wrapped with gauze. He rubbed his throat, remembering the dream— no, wait, it was a memory— he'd had some time ago (minutes? hours? days?). Was that why his voice was so raspy? It was hard picturing being grabbed around the neck by some shadow figure. A little voice told him to lie back down, to rest.

_No, I can't rest,_ he thought. I have to figure out what happened. He reached over and ripped the IV out of his arm. _Whose blood was that? _Dangling his feet over the bed, he realized he only wore a hospital gown. Well, maybe those jeans were still lying around. Maybe he could get his hands on some scrubs. He was still debating when a nurse walked into his room.

"Detective, you're awake," she observed, and then chided him for trying to move. He ignored her, trying to stand. Fire shot up leg, making him wince hard. He held onto the bed rail to stabilize himself. "Where are you going?"

"I need to check out. I have to go home now." The words were like tacks in his mouth, hitting his cheeks and tongue, biting down.

"Detective, please," the nurse said, stepping forward until she was about touching him. She was a petite red haired woman, small boned with birdlike features. He imagined he could break her tiny arms if he needed to. Her name tag read "Angie". She was already trying to guide him back to bed.

"Look, Angel, I just need my clothes." His voice sounded far away again. He didn't know if he could take another hit to his pride if he happened to faint onto this tiny woman.

Gently, she corrected him, and continued to insist he get back in bed. Without the aid of the IV, the pain was coming back with a vengeance. He was starting to see that first memory again, clearer and clearer. Shoulder gripped. Fist to face. Punch to throat. Wrist twisted. Then the desert, with no oasis or people in sight. Then stepping on glass, which seemed to have been upright, waiting for an unsuspecting shoeless victim.

He closed his eyes and let the nurse guide him back to bed. He waited while she replaced the IV and then listened as her soft shoes left the room. Medicine rushed to the places of pain, dulling the ache, but Lassiter frowned with annoyance. He felt as if he'd been under the influence too long. Time passed. The pain a lot less, he grabbed the IV and tore it out again. Taking a few swallow breaths, he began to try his escape plan again.

A firm knock at the door. Lassiter looked up. Chief Karen Vick stood in the doorway. For a few seconds her face was fuzzy. "Chief?" _Goddammit,_ he was getting so tired of his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.

Vick entered the room. "I was asked to be called when you woke."

_Damn, that stupid nurse, Angel. Angie_. He didn't say anything, partly because pain was creeping along his skin.

"Carlton, do you remember what happened to you?" Her voice was soft and concerned. She pulled up a metal chair. Lassiter jarred at its scrape on the floor.

"I— I— only small pieces. Not much. No." He shook his head a little, which was starting to hurt again. The nurse, Angie, reentered the room, with her apologies to Vick. She gave Lassiter a stern look, which Lassiter thought seemed funny on such a youthful face, and then reattached his IV. Trying to keep her tone light, she explained that if he pulled it out again, he would have to strapped down. Lassiter didn't let anything show on his face.

"Can you tell me what you remember?" Her voice seemed to be coming from the other side of the room.

"Sure, yes, Chief," he murmured, and then paused. "Wait, what day is it, Chief?"

"It's August third, Detective." Her voice was quiet, but he knew there was more.

"What is it?"

"Maybe you should tell me what you remember first."

"No. What are you holding back?" He was taking advantage of this funny voice to be insubordinate.

Vick sighed loudly. Lassiter knew she didn't want to tell him. _Was this about all that blood? Oh, the t-shirt. Where did it end up? _

Vick began speaking, and Carlton made himself stay alert to her voice. "Detective, you have been missing for 36 hours. When you didn't show up for duty, I had O'Hara call you, but there was no answer. O'Hara and McNab went to your apartment to check on you."

Okay, this was good. Now, he was going to be able to fill in the blanks. If what he had remembered was real, then his apartment should be a mess. Though it made his chest cold to think that there were 36 hours he couldn't recall clearly.

"O'Hara reported that there were no signs of a struggle." _What? What had she just said? No_ _signs of a struggle?_ "We brought Mr. Spencer in to help locate you—"

Lassite's jaw tightened with annoyance. That was the last thing he needed to be told, that Spencer had been in his apartment, trying to "divine" his whereabouts.

"But he couldn't find anything that suggested you had been—"

_What?_ he glared at her, _violently removed from my apartment?_ He couldn't believe this.

Vick was still speaking. "But your ID, badge, cell phone and car said otherwise." He nodded, though he felt like idiot doing it. He started to think that if he told her what he remembered, she wouldn't believe him. What if she confirmed that he had been drinking too much, off duty, but still. _No._ He shook his head to himself. _Remember that beach, wearing clothes he didn't own, shoeless? Remember the all blood, some that was his and some that was . . . unknown._

Karen hesitated. She looked as if she may have said too much. Carlton wanted to know how he had gotten here. _The last thing . . . a broad walk? Lots of kids. A girl screamed._ The parts were fuzzy. He thought he must have passed out at some point. He thought of his foot wedge with glass, how red it was, how metallic the smell. The cloth around it soaked through. . . .

"Where was I found?" Lassiter blurted out.

Vick looked startled. Carlton wondered if he had interrupted her. She sat up straight and pulled a notebook from her coat pocket. Flipping some pages, she read, "Leadbetter Beach." She looked him in the eyes, her voice serious. "Do you not remember what happened? Witnesses told the first officers on the scene that you had approached a group of teenagers. You were shirtless, barefoot, your face was bruised, and one of your feet was seeping blood. You identified yourself and then apparently fainted. The EMTs said they were able to bring you around but you were in and out."

Lassiter grimaced. Great, he had fainted, and in front of large group of rubberneckers. He sighed. "I, I remember some of that." Slowly, he began to relate what he remembered about the night he awoke to find the men standing over his bed. Vick listened, her face tight with worry. He left out parts, but mostly because details were bleeding together. He told her he had been shook awake, he told her about trying to fight off the men, go for his gun and/ or the phone. It was getting hard to focus again. He told her about being restrained by one; his wrist twitched involuntarily, and then how the needle went into his arm.

"All right, that's good, Carlton," Vick encouraged. "Go on."

"Then, the beach. I was walking but I don't know how long I'd been walking before I was aware of it." He paused. Did that sentence make any sense? He told her about the few times heÕd felt disoriented, and then how he'd found himself in clothes he didn't recognize and without footwear. A stab of self-preservation told him to hold his tongue regarding the shirt and the blood.

"What about the cut on your stomach?" Vick asked. Lassiter shook his head. "What about the torn shirt?" He told her about stepping on the glass and how it had become a makeshift bandage. Suddenly she was standing up. Patting his shoulder. Did she do that? Telling him she would let him rest now and that in a day or two he could give his statement. Every though she was trying to be comforting, her words jumped up and down like a toy on a string. She didn't have enough evidence to go on his word that he had been kidnapped. It hurt, even though he knew deep down that she was just doing her job. After she left he turned his head so it was facing the other side of the room, a plain white wall. He let his thoughts bubble aimlessly over that blank canvas until his eyelids grew heavy. He kept going over it, over and over, why would someone come into his apartment in the middle of the night and abduct him? Who would?


	3. Chapter 2: Sometimes My Shadow Leads

**Chapter Two: Sometimes My Shadow Leads, Or It Follows Me**

Disclaimer: I do not own the lyrics to Metallica's _I Disappear_.

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Shawn and Gus were at the police station when Vick returned. Shawn overheard O'Hara asking about Lassiter's condition.

"He is barely coherent, O'Hara," Vick reported. "Half the time he spoke to me, his words were slurred together. The nurse came in twice to reprimand him for pulling out his IV."

Juliet gave a small smile. "That does sound like Carlton," she commented, then furrowed her brow. "Why was he pulling out the IV?"

"The nurse told me when she went in to check on him, he was trying to get out bed. He told her needed to leave."

"That's very odd."

The Chief agreed.

"Was he able to tell you anything, Chief?" Juliet asked. She didn't notice Shawn sneaking up behind her, Gus in tow.

Shawn put his fingers to the side of his head and said loudly, "I'm _divining,_ Chief, that he was able to tell you—"

Vick raised her hand. "Mr. Spencer, not a good time."

"—He was able to tell you that— he just wandered off to get donuts, no, it wasn't donuts. It was Swedish Fish."

"Mr. Spencer." A line creased her brow. She looked from Shawn's eager face to Juliet's concerned one, and sighed. "My office." The trio followed her and shut the door. "This does not leave the office, understand?" She stared at Shawn with a hard look.

"Oh, come on, give a guy a break," Shawn sighed dramatically. "It was just that_ one time_ that I happened to accidentally tip off that murder suspect—"

Vick frowned and gave Shawn a look that said she wished he had an "off" switch.

She sat down and motioned for them to sit as well. "Detective Lassiter did not know where he was when he was found on Leadbetter Beach. As per he told me, he became conscious that he was walking on a beach but that the events of the last 36 hours had been, for lack of a better word, obliterated from his mind."

_Obliterated,_ _wow_. Shawn stared at her with a silent awe. She usually did not use words like that.

Vick related a short version of what Lassiter had told her. Juliet interrupted halfway through. "I'm sorry, Chief, but his apartment didn't show any signs—" Vick nodded. "Right. I did tell the Detective this. He seemed confused by this news." She continued, ending with how Lassiter was sure there had been foul play.

"Chief," Juliet began, "did you tell him that his gun was missing?"

_That's right,_ Shawn recalled. He had a flashback to a day ago, when he accompanied Juliet to Lassiter's apartment. _Lassiter's police things laid out on the dresser in a line: wallet, badge, _space,_ cell phone, car keys. Items equidistant_. Thinking back, it made little sense how that scene could have been left so neat.

Vick sighed. "No. He didn't mention anything about his gun, other than trying to get to it while he was being attacked." Vick gave Shawn another hard look. He knew better than to ask if he and Gus could have an escort and a key made to enter Lassiter's apartment.

"So are were still on the case?" Shawn asked. He gestured to himself and Gus, who looked bored.

Vick sighed again, the annoyance drawing on her face. "Mr. Spencer, as of this moment, there is no case. Detective Lassiter has been found. When he gets back to work, we will get this straightened out." She waved them out of the office. Juliet gave them, well, Shawn mostly, a closed smile before turning back to Vick.

* * *

After Shawn had closed the door, Vick said, "Detective Lassiter mentioned a syringe going into his arm, right before he blacked out. I ordered a blood test. It should be ready in a day." She paused. "O'Hara, I did not tell this to Detective Lassiter."

Juliet pursed her lips. She needed to stick up for her partner, especially if he had been the victim of a crime. "Chief, with all due respect—"

"O'Hara," Vick interrupted, "there's more. When the EMTs arrived on the scene where Detective Lassiter turned up injured, witnesses told them that he had wandering about, incoherent, then managed to get out his name and ask for a witness to call 911. The paramedics cut off the remains of the t-shirt he had been wearing."

"Okay," Juliet said, not following the thread.

"O'Hara, the shirt was caked with dried blood. Lassiter was found to have a swallow cut across his stomach. But it was superficial."

"What are you saying?" Juliet sat up. "The dried blood isn't his?" She knew she was an officer of the law and had to see this possible evidence against her partner objectively, but it was hard.

"It appears not to be. At this time it's from an unknown source. Carlton did not mention anything about this t-shirt, but witnesses told the officers that he had tied it around his waist. I have had it sent to the crime lab for testing."

"What if it is his blood?" _What if he had been seriously hurt?_ There was a sudden sour taste in Juliet's mouth.

Vick shook her head. "Not possible. He only had that small cut. And he was apparently coherent enough to dress the cut on his foot with the clean half of the shirt." She stopped, tapping a pencil on the desk. "But to keep up the act just for my benefit . . ."

"With all due respect, ma'am," Juliet broke in, "an act? What you said is true, isn't it, about Detective Lassiter's current condition?" She was shocked to hear her boss's musings that Lassiter seemed to be the great mastermind in his own disappearance. Lassiter was a serious and responsible man; the exact opposite of Shawn, Juliet thought suddenly. He was dependable, by the book. She couldn't imagine her partner lying about going missing just to cover his own ass. Even if something bad had happened . . . .

"He is bruised and cut up, yes, and he was having trouble staying conscious. But at certain moments his phrasing was clear. I have a feeling he is deliberately keeping something from me."

"Chief Vick, what do you think Detective Lassiter has done?"

* * *

"Something just doesn't add up, Gus. We need to get back into Lassie's apartment before he manages to break out of the hospital," Shawn said as they were on their way out of the police station. He had a hard time believing Lassie would make up such an outrageous story. Just because he didn't think the detective was capable of that much imagination, at least not in the spare space of a single day.

"Shawn, we were already there. We looked, and even _you_ didn't pick up anything. Don't you think that's a little off? He just wasn't there," Gus retorted, "nothing out of the ordinary. So, his bed was unmade, and there was a glass on his night stand. Did you ever think that maybe he had insomnia after too many episodes of _Cops_ and then took a walk?"

"Geez, Gus, you are really putting my 'going out for Swedish Fish' theory to shame," Shawn teased.

Gus suppressed a scowl with a grimace.

"Gus, listen to yourself. He just, what, went for a walk? And took a thirty mile walk for 36 hours where he ends up with a bunch of cuts and bruises?" His eyes were gleaming.

Gus sniffed. "It could happen." Though he didn't sound like he was convincing himself either.

"Listen, who would want to kidnap Lassiter and then just dump him in the middle of some college town beach?" Gus watched Shawn make a face. "Come on, you see where I'm going with this."

"Yeah, okay, Gus, but it's not like Lassie doesn't have a list of enemies as long as his arm who wouldn't mind messing with him."

"But this? It sounds like some elaborate conspiracy theory. Not that I believe in conspiracy theories." Shawn grinned. "Shawn, you don't believe in conspiracy theories either."

"Damn, but it would have been a great explanation, right?"

"Well, it would might have this wrapped up faster. I've got to get back to work soon anyway."

"You can't go yet. We've got to do one more sweep."

"Uh, uh, Shawn, I'm not going in there with you. Breaking and entering is one less charge that I'd rather not have to beg to have expunged from my record." Thanks to his going along with Shawn's antics, Gus had a small criminal record. And he really hated it. But it was hard to say no to Shawn. Shawn gave another winning smile. "Uh, uh, Shawn. NO. Didn't you hear Vick? She said there is no case. Lassiter is lying in a hospital bed. He's no longer considered a missing person."

"Gus, there must be something I missed. We went in thinking the place would be a mess, remember? And come on, Lassie wouldn't just wander off on his own."

"Oh, right, that's you," Gus jabbed under his breath.

"What was that?" Shawn asked, turning to his friend.

"I said I'll drive," Gus covered with a sigh.

* * *

He slowly opened his eyes when he became aware of pain in his head, behind his eyes, and the shrillness of a large hammer forcing an unwilling object, a nail or a post, into an unyielding space. Metal on metal, _pound, pound, pound, pound._ It was deafening; why couldn't someone turn it off? His jaw ached, as if he'd been clenching it for a long time. Blearily, he peered through the brown darkness of his room to the bright fluorescence of the hallway leading to the nurse's station. _Oh, right. Hospital_. The shrillness and pounding were done; maybe it had just been a bad dream. _Right, a bad dream, _he chided himself. He attempted to peer backwards into his own mind for any shred of the time he had lost. But just the loop: what had happened first and then last, with no middle at all. In his bed at home, asleep; on the sunlit beach, dazed and hurt.

Footsteps, a squeak and skid of work boots on recently polished linoleum, getting close. An idle thought: _Why was it that hospitals always had to be pristine every second of every day?_ A figure in the doorway of his hospital room; a stab of fear cut Lassiter from throat to the pit of his stomach. The figure came in, easing the door shut. Room in instant darkness; Lassiter fumbled for the call button. This person was not a nurse; those nurses came into with carts that held machines and instruments that poked and shocked, _god, no._ He was losing his grip on lucidity again.

The figure reached his bed in three and half brisk steps. A man, stocky, maybe five foot eleven, maybe fifty, with dark hair, maybe. He was clad in loose dark clothing, maybe black or navy or brown. His skin was leathery like a mask. The man easily separated Lassiter's fingers from the nurse's call button, pulling it out his reach and wrapping it around his IV stand.

"How did you get in here?" Lassiter demanded, suddenly more detective than ordinary man. Visiting hours must have ended three or four hours before. A leathery fist around his throat, forcing his head back against the half propped up bed. Still not speaking, the man twisted a knob on Lassiter's fluid IV, ensuring the detective's voice would be more hoarse than it already was.

"Who are you?" Lassiter forced out before the leathery fingers tightened their grasp.

"Oh, you don't remember me," the man said in a low voice. "That is good, very good."

"Wha—you?" Lassiter choked.

The man seemed to smile in the dark. "You are quite persistent, aren't you?" A small note of admiration there. "Well, that is a reason why we chose you," the man seemed to say aloud to himself. Lassiter's fingers clawed at the hand over his neck.

"Let—" Tears were coming to his eyes; he needed to take a full breath.

The man's other hand shot out, closing around Lassiter's injured wrist and giving it a hard twist. His cry was a gurgled groan; tears now on his cheeks.

"You ask too many questions, you did ask too many then too," the man told him cryptically. "You are not very good at listening."

Lassiter's blue eyes contorted with confusion, peering up into the man's brown? black? eyes. There, on his sideburns, a touch of gray. Under his left eye, a small curled scar. A small brown mustache. Yet the face was unfamiliar. If only he could remember something . . .

The man continued, "You were told specifically not to talk to the police, Detective. Mr. Bernise will be most displeased by your insubordination."

Lassiter tried to speak only to have his wrist twisted again.

"After all, Detective, you were the one who walked away wearing all that blood."

A strangled cry escaped Carlton's lips. _The t-shirt. Was that what this was about?_ Another hard twist to his wrist and the man's voice breathed, "Very bad."

Carlton's face fought off the pain, anger quickly filling out all his features. "Detective," the man said sternly, "you will close your eyes and count to one hundred." A hard squeeze to his throat followed by a staggering pain to his wrist. Prior to arriving at the hospital, it had only been bruised and strained, but he was almost certain now it was sprained. He had closed his eyes, but only because that last twist caused an ugly flash of red across of his vision. Light, like sparks, jumped around behind his eyes, so he hardly felt the pressure leave his neck and wrist. His cheeks were very wet and he prayed that it was only water and not blood; the inside of his mouth ached, then his collarbone. What if his eyeballs had burst?

When he opened his eyes again morning light was just beginning to filter in, so he guessed the time to be about 5 am. He had barely slept; after the man vanished, he had given himself over to begging the pain to stop. At some point he'd dozed, though when he was conscious again it felt he hadn't slept at all. His body felt like lead. He examined his neck with his non-injured hand, and then touched his cheeks. The tears had dried hours ago and he was in the slightest relived to realize he had not bled out sometime in the night.

When the man had removed the nurse's call button, he'd also put the button Lassiter had been told to press every time he felt pain out of reach. He assumed it had been morphine, but now he'd been without it for a while. He had curled his injured wrist protectively against his body; with his left hand he gingerly turned his right over. A nasty purple bruise had formed over his veins. It hurt even to wiggle his fingers. _God, I hope it's not broken._

He turned his head toward the blank wall. _God, what was I thinking? Why didn't I fight back?_ He cursed himself. He knew he had been too startled to fight, and reflected that the scene, no it was a memory, had happened too fast. The man had known— Lassiter's head swam with sudden horror— exactly which wrist was injured. This had happened before; a rush of thought. That night when the figures turned up in his apartment, he had been grabbed then around the neck, and then the right wrist. _Maybe it was just a coincidence_. Lassiter turned his head sharply, and his eyes widened when he saw a plain white envelope on his metal bedside table. He snatched it with his left hand; there wasn't any writing on the front. It wasn't sealed either. He dumped out the contents onto his blanket. Two brass keys clinked onto the bed, and then a folded piece of notebook paper fluttered out.

He picked up the keys with a gasp he couldn't stop. Cold in the room; he shivered. These were _his keys_, or rather, copies of his keys, one to his apartment and one to his car. He stared at them, holding one and then the other up to the light as if they were precious jewels. Turning them over and over, he ran his fingers over the generic surface that copies always had and knew these were not the only copies that had been made. The keys sent him enough of a message so he couldn't imagine what the note could possibly contain. Tentatively, he unfolded the paper.

_I went on, I went on down that road_

_And I went on, I went on down that road_

_Ain't no mercy left for me_

_Ain't no mercy left for me_

_I'm pain, I'm hope, I'm suffer_

_Ain't no mercy, ain't no mercy_

_left for me_


	4. Chapter 3: No Sign of a Parachute

**Chapter Three: No Sign of a Parachute**

Disclaimer: I do not own Metallica's _I Disappear_, Quentin Tarantino's _Kill Bill Vol. 1_ or anything to do with _The Dick Van Dkye Show_.

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_I went on, I went on down that road_

_And I went on, I went on down that road_

_Ain't no mercy left for me_

_Ain't no mercy left for me_

_I'm pain, I'm hope, I'm suffer_

_Ain't no mercy, ain't no mercy_

_left for me_

Just a scrawl with repeated phrases shouldn't be this unnerving. He shouldn't want to crumple the paper or eat it to spare someone else seeing it. Just a scrawl and repeated phrases that didn't give him any indication of anything he may have done that he couldn't remember.

His hands were shaking as he pushed the note and keys back into the envelope. He tucked the flap inside and then dropped it back on table.

_Calm down, calm down,_ he instructed himself. _Be rational._ Fear had briefly replaced the pain that was bleeding back. He let it come, biting his lip hard. He had to get out of here; he was no longer in a safe place. True, his apartment was no longer a safe place either, but somehow he felt more vulnerable here, wearing this stupid hospital gown, waiting for a wave of morphine to knock him back into sleep. No, he needed to get out here so he could figure things out his own space. He shifted, and stifled another groan. _Goddammit, this wrist._ After he got home he could go have it checked out at one of those walk-in clinics. _Whatever_, he had to move fast, before one of those nosy nurses popped into the check on him. He was certain they wouldn't hesitate to strap him to the bed if they suspected he'd inflicted pain upon himself; there wasn't any way in hell he could tell anyone about his special visitor. He ripped out the half useless IV, and cradled his right wrist to his chest as he pushed himself to the end of the bed. As soon as he put weight on his bandaged foot, a blinding sharpness threatened him with blacking out. He eased himself to the floor, hoping this wouldn't be the moment someone walked in. He flushed at this minor weakness, and did his best to ignore the searing on every wounded part of his body. Using the edge of the bed, Lassiter pushed back to his feet. He did his best to keep weight off it; and shuffled to closet. The strange black jeans were there, draped over a hanger. He jerked them down and pushed the bathroom door open.

A few minutes passed before he hobbled out, glad to discover they had left him with his boxers when they had dressed him in the hospital gown. Lassiter walked to the metal table, opening drawers in hopes of finding some kind of footwear. In the bottom drawer, a pair of white footie socks; small, but hell, they were better than nothing. He pulled them on quickly and then pocketed the white envelope. The hospital gown still hung loosely but he didn't dare take it off. Instead, he pulled it closed and tied the ends so it looked like a smock.

Lassiter glanced at the door. He had no idea where his room was in relation to the lobby; he looked out his window for the first time; a tiny smile in his eyes. The first floor, with only a three feet drop to the ground. Lassiter unlocked the window and slid it open as far as it would go. He could make it; but it was going to be a tight squeeze for his lanky, muscular frame. The casing had no ledge. Wasting little time, he acted, pushing his right leg through before remembering it was the bandaged foot. _Well, too late now,_ he shrugged inwardly. Still cradling his wrist, he straddled the window and used the strength of his left arm to ease his other leg out. He let go the frame immediately, not caring how rough the landing would be. He already looked like hell so what difference did it make? His soles hit the ground and then he was on his knees, a scream wasting away under his tongue. After a few breaths, he looked around. He had dropped into a small patio area, decorated with shrubs and summer flowers. The colors seemed too bright, then too dull. He bent to the ground as liquid rushed out, though it was hard to imagine what could possibly be left in his stomach. _The last thing I ate came from an IV,_ he thought.

He would run if he had to, all pain be damned. Luckily, he knew his way home from Santa Barbara General. Lassiter did his best to be discreet, keeping his head low but his eyes peeled for hospital attendants, security guards, or doctors on their way in to work. He counted his steps in time with his heartbeat. He felt more substantial now than when he had been wandering around that beach, or even when he was in the hospital bed.

His only visitor before his unwanted guest a few hours ago was Vick; Carlton barely remembered their conversation. He laughed bitterly under his breath. _Attacked twice, at least twice, in the past . . . three days, was it?_ A cold truth: no one was going to believe him. He had to figure this out on his own and hope that he didn't end up dead in the process. Vick, O'Hara and the rest of the SBPD officers had to go where the evidence led them, and couldn't let their personal feelings for friendship get in the way. The job came first. It happened all the time.

* * *

"Shawn, I still don't think you should be doing this," Gus told his friend via cell phone. Shawn stood outside Lassie's apartment, picking the lock. "It's fine, Gus. Stopping worrying."

"What if you get caught?" Gus asked, rustling papers on his desk at work.

"Then I will tell them the spirits told me that—"

As Gus grumbled, Shawn thought back to the day before. Yesterday, when Gus's cobalt Yaris drove up to Lassiter's apartment building, they found two SBPD patrol cars already parked there. Shawn was stymied trying to figure out why they'd be there, especially when Vick had told him the case was closed. Even Gus commented that it was a strange coincidence. They parked across the street, waiting for almost an hour but SBPD's finest didn't emerge.

"Wouldn't they need warrant to go in there?" Gus asked.

"I think that's only if they think something's up. I wonder if this has something to do with Lassie's missing gun?"

Shawn thought it would be best to do his breaking and entering early, before the second string of cops were sent in. The sky was just getting light as he popped the lock.

"Jackpot. I'm in, Gus."

"Be careful. Don't touch anything," Gus warned him.

"But what if Lassie has pineapple? Pineapple is not off limits."

"Goodbye, Shawn," Gus huffed, hanging up.

Shawn observed Lassiter's rooms; the walls were a faint yellow-beige, with no artwork or frames on the walls. The furniture was clean and looked nearly new; hunter-green sofa, black arm chair, cherry finished coffee table where a stack of gun interest magazines sat. Shawn shook his head at Lassie's tastes, then shrugged. The small kitchen was clean too, except for a couple unwashed dishes in the sink. Shawn wandered in the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. It was well stocked: bandages, first aid kits, generic and brand name pain pills, cold and flu medicines, extra blades for a razor, shaving cream, a brush, hair gel. Plain stuff, mostly. No wad of cash held together with a clip or any pouches of precious gems or any Chinese throwing stars or even any pepper spray. Shawn smiled to himself, thinking this would be the place that _he_ would keep Chinese throwing stars, but likely not _his_ mace. That might be a messy situation some morning if he happened to be running late.

Shawn closed the cabinet and wandered back towards the living room area. He spotted a cordless telephone on an end table on one side of the couch. The table's angle was slightly off compared to the rest of the furniture. When he went closer, he saw that the table had been moved so that two of its legs were out of their worn spots in the carpet. Shawn quickly checked the rest of the furniture and this was the only piece that had been moved recently. Shawn started wondering if he could rope his dad or Juliet into helping him get Lassie's phone records. Or maybe they'd already done that? The detective's cell phone remained untouched, still lined up on his dresser; the order of it all in itself puzzling. Despite the sparseness of the apartment, Shawn didn't figure Lassie for the "all objects in proper alignment" type of guy, especially after long shifts at the precinct, interrogating and busting perps.

Okay, so what did he have? A moved table and four possessions in a line with the detective's gun missing. Not a lot to go on. It was times like these when Shawn wished he could get some message from "spirits", even if it were only the tiniest arrow pointing him in the right direction. He sighed. He headed towards Lassiter's bedroom but stopped when he heard someone at the door. _Oh, crap. _Was it the cops? Had a neighbor reported him breaking in? Or maybe it was the criminals, returning to the scene of the crime?

The knob turned and the door opened with grunted curse. Shawn had no time to hide his surprise. Wincing, he quickly brought his fingers to head in his trademark "psychic" gesture. Lassiter froze, furious to see the annoying so-called psychic standing in his living room. Shawn had closed his eyes and ignored Lassiter when he growled, "Spencer, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Yes, yes, spirits, I see. Omm. Becoming clearer now . . . . What? A moved . . . ottoman . . . a man tumbling . . . oh, great, spirits with a sense of humor. No, spirits, that was _The Dick Van Dyke Show_." He wiggled his fingers. "Oh. I see. A moved . . . table? By the couch?"

"Spencer," Lassiter warned darkly.

Shawn opened his eyes, putting on his best innocent face. "Oh, hey, Lassie. What are you doing here?" Shawn eyed the battered detective. "Dude, I can't believe you weren't picked up by the fashion police." Lassiter scowled. "Did you escape from the hospital or something?"

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" Lassiter spat.

"It was the spirits, Lassie. They called me here. They wouldn't stop nagging, telling me there was something I missed before."

Lassiter cursed. Spencer always gave him a headache, though these days all the pain was running together. Shawn's fingers had gone back to his head. "Yes, tell me more about this table," he said to the air, as if he were having a conversation with someone invisible to Lassiter.

Lassiter's lip curled. The memory blurred; himself, grabbing for the phone, only to have it knocked from his hand. _Had_ the table been moved? That part wasn't clear. He shook his head. "Spencer, get out of here. Or I'll call your father," he added the last part weakly, lowering himself into a chair. His right wrist flopped and Shawn zeroed in on the large purple bruise.

"Lassie, what is that?" he asked suddenly.

Lassiter frowned and pulled his wrist back. He didn't answer. Shawn noticed that Lassiter was only wearing socks and not shoes. "You know, you could have mentioned to the spirits that you needed a ride from the hospital. They would have told me." Lassiter's eyes were a steely blue as they stared at Shawn. "Of course, you would have probably had run along side my motorcycle anyway—" he paused, because Lassiter was looking at him murderously. "But I would have totally given you the helmet," he quipped.

"Get out," Lassiter demanded. "Get out of here, Spencer, so help me god."

Shawn shifted his weight. He doubted that Lassiter would really hurt him, especially when he looked like he'd fallen down two flights of concrete stairs. He was dying to tease him about the footie socks. Lassie had a fresh yellow bruise visible on the neck, just below his Adam's Apple. Shawn took in the rest of Lassiter's injuries: a slight, blue bruise in the shape of knuckles under his left eye, and his face and bare arms had small, minor cuts. He knew the detective's foot had been badly cut. From the way he spoke he sounded dehydrated. The way he was holding his wrist made Shawn think that he needed a doctor.

Lassiter's heart was racing. He was both angry and startled to find Shawn here, making up some story about a moved table, and then stubbornly refusing to leave. When he heard Shawn ask again if he had escaped from the hospital, Lassiter rose quickly with a stoic, pain-free attitude, and walked towards the bathroom. He was dizzy and starting to feel lightheaded, despite having rested many times on his way here. Idly, he wondered if the milk in his fridge was still good, though thinking about putting anything in his mouth that he'd have to chew that wasn't medicine made him feel like puking again. He slammed the bathroom door, catching a quick glimpse at his ragged appearance in the medicine cabinet mirror. _I look like a shark attack victim,_ he thought strangely, searching up and down the shelves for the strongest medicine. His hand was around a bottle when he remembered the envelope in his pocket. He dropped the bottle and it clattered into the sink.

"You okay in there, Lassie?" Shawn called from outside.

The envelope and its contents were hot, and he pulled it out and stared at it without looking inside. _The keys._ They—whomever _they_ were, that man last night, and who knew how many others—had made copies of his personal keys. They had been in his apartment, probably his car too. What if they'd replaced his ordinary medicine with something more potent? Lassiter shoved the bottle of pills back into his medicine cabinet and slammed it shut. His reflection glared back, a hollow glance with a barely veiled fear just below the surface of his features. He noticed for the first time that his dark hair looked dull and was plastered to his head on one side. He patted it, hoping it wasn't bloody. Lassiter turned on the cold water, pushing his fingers in, letting the cold ground him. He cupped his hands and splashed some water on his face, and then some into his mouth.

He could send Spencer out on an errand, to get him some extra strength pain pill that he could eat three of while he decided if he could take care of the wrist himself or not. He opened the door, not happy to see Shawn still waiting outside.

His voice was still gruff. "Look, Spencer, I need you to do me a favor, okay?"

"What?" Shawn asked, suspicious.

"Can you go out to a drugstore and pick me up some extra strength Tylenol or Advil, one of those? I have this" —his wrist twitched— "uh, can you just go? I've got cash in my wallet—" He stopped, not knowing where his wallet was. "Look, I'll pay you back, okay?"

Shawn gave Lassiter a funny look which the older man didn't see because he was already sinking down to the couch. Lassiter had a stockpile of OTC drugs; was he just trying to get rid of him? "Lassie, I'm divining that you, being a professional in law enforcement, have _oceans_ of Tylenol lying around here—"

_"__Goddammit_, Shawn," Lassiter yelled. Shawn jumped. "Just forget it. I'm fine, I don't need any favors from you." He pushed back against the cushions, closing his eyes.

Shawn stood there, stunned. Lassie was not fine, he knew it. He looked a bit like The Bride in _Kill Bill Vol. 1, _after she'd almost been murdered by Bill and The Deadly Viper Assassin Squad. All that was missing was a bullet to his head. Oh, and being a pregnant woman, but that was neither here nor there.

"Lassie?" Shawn asked. No answer. The detective was breathing softly. Lassiter slumped to one side; the white envelope he forgot to put away dropped onto the couch. Soft _clinks_; Shawn reached for the envelope. He looked over the keys in his palm, his brow furrowing because he could swear he had seen these particular keys before. He tiptoed to Lassiter's bedroom, where the detective's things were still lined out on the dresser. Shawn's eyes immediately highlighted the key ring; he got a punch of dread when he realized the keys from the envelope were copies of Lassiter's apartment and car keys. There were other keys on the ring, which Shawn figured were work related, but there were no copies of these. What was Lassie doing with copies of his own keys? _Very puzzling._ Shawn slid the keys back in and retrieved the folded note. The words didn't make any sense to him, other than sounding like lyrics to a song he may have heard once or twice. Later, he'd Google. Again, Shawn wondered why Lassie had this.

Shawn thought over Lassie's request for him to go buy medicine. He knew there was something seriously wrong with the detective's right wrist; besides the bruise, it looked a little swollen. Besides, by the way Lassie was holding it, Shawn suspected the detective was trying to pretend it didn't hurt for Shawn's benefit. He was half tempted to get the detective an ambulance, or at least call Juliet because she might know what to do. But Juliet would have to tell Vick, and then Shawn would get in trouble for breaking into Lassiter's apartment. Shawn could deal with Lassie's being pissed that Shawn was here because he believed Lassie wouldn't press charges. He looked over the sleeping detective again; that was definitely a hospital gown and not just a really ugly thrift store shirt. Lassie acted guilty every time Shawn asked if he had escaped from the hospital. Why would he just run away? Once Vick found out, she would be furious. What could make Lassie carry out such an irrational act? _Gus had been right yesterday, _Shawn thought smugly. _He_ would run. But what could make levelheaded, fearless Head SBPD Detective Lassiter run?

Shawn decided to try an experiment to see if he could get a reaction out of Lassie. While Lassie slept, Shawn got out a few bottles of pain pills, a bag of frozen veggies and a dish towel with, strangely enough, a picture of a gun on it. As he filled a glass with water from the sink, Lassie mumbled in his sleep.

_"I will not talk to police." _

_"Good, say it, again, Detective." _

_"I will not talk to police." _

_"Again." _

_"I will not talk to police." _

_"Again."_

Lassiter could see himself speaking to someone, unable to determine if the person were male or female. Like having an out of body experience, he heard himself continue to repeat that one phrase until the scene faded. He shook his head violently and sat up. _His couch. His place. Right._ White hotness in his wrist. He blinked furiously to scatter the stars.

It took him a minute to realize Shawn was still there. The younger man was leaned up against the arm of the couch opposite where he had fallen asleep. "Spencer," Lassiter growled.

Shawn ignored him, pointing to the glass of water and the pill bottles in front of him. "Look, Lassie, I snooped in your medicine cabinet and found these perfectly good, already purchased painkillers." Lassiter glared at Shawn. "Why don't you take a couple." Lassiter eyed them almost hungrily but told Shawn that he no longer needed them.

"So, your headache or whatever is gone?"

Lassiter wanted to give Shawn a nasty, obvious "not until you're out of my hair" look, but nodded absently instead.

"So, your wrist is fine, then?"

Lassiter pulled it protectively towards his body. He was uncomfortable and wished Shawn would just leave. His reactions times had really dulled because before he knew it Shawn had grabbed his injured wrist. He cried out before he could stop himself, a low, mournful and forceful "No!"

Shawn let go immediately, nodding. "That's what I thought." He handed over the frozen veggies wrapped in the dish towel. "Lassie, what the hell happened to you?"

Lassiter accepted the bag silently. He was still determined not to tell Shawn anything.

Shawn crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."

"I'm not telling you, Spencer," Lassiter huffed. That fainting feeling was creeping up. _No_. If he passed out in front of Spencer, he might call him an ambulance.

"Then who are you going to tell? Vick? I'm not supposed to tell you this, because I sort of promised Vick I wouldn't" —Lassiter rolled his eyes in spite of himself— "but she gave the impression that she didn't believe the story you told her when you were in the hospital."

"What? _Story_?" Lassiter froze. _Story? Vick thought that—_

"Yup," Shawn confirmed, as if he could read Lassiter's thoughts. (He could read the expression in Lassiter's eyes.)

_God,_ Lassiter always thought it would be a cold day in hell before he asked Shawn Spencer for help. He felt disappointed in himself. He mumbled something.

"Tell me about the wrist."

"It's nothing. It's—look—I—I hurt it when I jumped out of the window. At the hospital. I sort of fell on it." Lassiter heard his voice but couldn't believe he was telling Spencer anything, even if it was a lie. "It didn't seem too bad so I thought I could go to a walk-in clinic to get it checked out."

Shawn looked skeptical. "Is it broken?" Lassiter shook his head. "Sprained?" Lassiter mumbled "Maybe."

"Look, why don't you let me drive you to get it checked out?" Shawn offered.

"Because you don't have a car, Spencer," Lassiter reminded him with a grimace.

"No, but you do."

"No," Lassiter barked. "We can't take my car. Uh, I have a flat." When Shawn started to protest, he snapped, "Stop being a pain in the ass."

Shawn frowned and stood up. "Fine. I could go. You obviously don't need any help." He made like he was going to leave but turned halfway. "Lassie, one more thing."

Lassiter sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. "What?" A hard word.

Shawn held up the white envelope and shook it so the keys jingled. "Does your sudden paranoia have anything to do with this?"


	5. Chapter 4: Cut a Piece of Skin From Me

**Chapter Four: Coming Up On 23, Cut A Piece Of Skin From Me**

Disclaimer: I do not own lyrics to The Vincent Black Shadow's _This Road is Going Nowhere_ or anything to do with _Night of the Living Dead._

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Lassiter had a hard time disguising his shock. The veil was too thin, fraying, the fear was going to show. He wanted to demand as to what Shawn was doing with it, but Shawn took the opportunity of his speechlessness to continue.

"And the fact that you were kidnapped from your apartment three days ago?"

Carlton experienced the jarring memory of the attack from that night again. He remembered the moment of clarity before he was drugged when he knew they were there to kidnap him. He stared up at Shawn, not knowing what to say.

"The Chief doesn't know what to make of your account," Shawn continued, "and also why you can't remember anything afterwards except the beach."

Lassiter had the urge to slap Shawn as if he were an insect poised to strike. He was pissed that Vick had shared this information with Shawn in the first place. A notion struck him and he interrupted Shawn. "Vick said she doesn't believe I was—" _Kidnapped. _The word was glued to his tongue. He couldn't say it. Saying it would make it too real. But Spencer had already said it.

"Kidnapped," Lassiter finished softly.

Shawn's cell phone started ringing. Shawn pulled it out, checking the caller ID. "It's Juliet," he informed Lassiter. He answered it.

"Shit," Lassiter mumbled.

"Hey, Jules, what's up?"

"Shawn, where are you?"

"Um," Shawn stared at Lassiter. "Getting a pineapple-mango smoothie. Why, do you want one?" Shawn kept his tone light.

"No, look, have you seen Carlton?"

"Lassie? Nah, I haven't gone to visit him in the hospital, Jules. Gus told me I'd probably just make him sicker." Lassiter sneered, nodding. Shawn sneered back, shaking his head. "Why do you ask?"

"Chief Vick and I just went to his room at Santa Barbara General and he's not here. He's missing again, Shawn."

"Missing?" Shawn repeated.

"There's no record of him checking out, and the window in his room is wide open."

Lassiter knew he'd been too rash hightailing it out of SB General. It would look really bad, he realized suddenly. The first time he really was abducted, but the second? How was he going to explain that he was threatened by a strange man in the middle of the night who sprained his wrist? And what about the keys, the note? No, he couldn't tell them anything, not yet.

"He's probably not missing, Jules. Does he sleepwalk? Maybe he's wandering around the hospital asking for brains, for tasty, tasty brains."

Lassiter rolled his eyes.

Juliet made an exasperated sound. "I don't think so, Shawn."

"Well, did you check any other floors? Oooh, I know! I'll come down and ask the hospital energy if it can help locate him. Be right there!" Shawn hung up to Juliet's protests.

"Get up, you're going back to the hospital."

"No, I'm not. I can't," Lassiter said.

"Dude, Vick and Juliet are at the hospital right now, looking for you." Shawn had obviously come to the same conclusion Lassiter had about his fleeing the hospital. "Besides you can get your broken wrist looked at there."

"No." Lassiter shook his head firmly.

"Fine, I'll call Jules back and tell her I saw you going into your apartment building." Lassiter hesitated. "Come on, tell me what's going on. Why don't you want to go back the hospital?"

Lassiter tossed his good hand in the air. "This is none of your business. You shouldn't want to get involved in this, whatever this is."

Shawn began pushing buttons on his phone.

Lassiter sighed loudly in defeat. "The keys, Spencer. I know you saw them." He took a deep breath and looked Shawn in the eyes. "I was attacked last night, in my room."

"What?" Shawn's mouth dropped open. He stopped punching buttons. "What do you mean?"

Lassiter sighed, regretting giving this much away. He told Shawn about the man and what he had done, but not what he had said. "You didn't recognize him, but he knew which wrist was hurt?" Lassiter nodded, and Shawn knew he was telling the truth. "Eventually, I passed out from the pain and when I woke up, that envelope was on my bedside table."

"And you ran because?"

Carlton shrugged, running his left hand through his hair. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking clearly." Of course, the truth was in what he wasn't saying.

Shawn stared back, seeing fear as plain as day in the Head Detective's eyes. "Why can't you tell Vick?"

Lassiter snorted. "Because I don't really want to be crucified today." Another sweep of his hair. Words, unbidden, tumbled out. "I didn't tell her about that blood on my t-shirt, the blood that wasn't mine."

"Whoa, Lassie, hold up," Shawn said, taking a few steps back. "What do you mean, not your blood?"

Lassiter glared at him. His top lip twitched. "Aren't you supposed to getting to the hospital to 'divine' my whereabouts, or whatever it is you do?"

Shawn threw an angry look back. "Dude, I'm trying to help you here."

"I don't need help," Lassiter lied.

"Fine, fine. You're such a goddamn jerk." Without another word, Shawn left.

* * *

Shawn fumed all the way to his bike. He was angry that Lassiter was resisting help when he was obviously in trouble. He thought of everything that had occurred, from the paranoia about the pill bottles, the car, the persistent denial of pain, the fear written in Lassiter's tension and speech, and lastly, this new revelation about Lassie running away because he was afraid of some scary man and a set of keys. Shawn had known Lassiter for almost three years and knew that Lassiter was not a man governed by emotions. He was not a person who panicked. He was always rational, determined, and most of all, sane. The man he had just left seemed the farthest thing from sane, unconfident and jumpy. It was disturbing for Shawn to see first hand. He set his jaw. He was going to help Lassie whether the stubborn detective liked it or not.

As he drove the bike through early morning traffic, he wondered if he could go to his father with Lassie's problem. Tricky, with his father being both volatile and a retired SBPD cop. Maybe he should talk to Gus first. No, there wasn't time now. He had to make it to hospital and do damage control. He doubted Lassie was going to come around in the next few minutes and turn himself in.

* * *

Lassiter felt a little guilty for being so hard on Spencer, even if the younger man was the most annoying pain in the ass he'd ever met. After all, Spencer tried to cover for him when Juliet called. Damn, this was very tricky. Well, going back to the hospital was out of the question. He went into his bedroom to change his clothes. He stopped, looking over his bed. The figures had been standing there, one next to his night stand, the other at that tiny corner near the foot of the bed. His bed was rumpled; he was a little surprised that they hadn't made his bed too. A glass still sat on the table. _What had been in that glass?_ It looked empty but he hoped there was some residue left. He wondered where the SBPD t-shirt he'd been wearing that night ended up. Sighing, he pulled off the hospital gown and threw it onto his bed.

He stopped again when he turned towards his dresser. _What the hell?_ He had not left his personal items like that. He'd dropped his keys and badge on the kitchen counter next to his toaster oven. His wallet? He thought he had left it in his pants pocket. His cell phone was the only thing he'd left on top of the dresser. A strange prickling on the back of neck. _Where the crap was his gun?_ Lassiter found his holster folder over a chair; eyes at the dresser again, he traced the line. If the gun was there, it would have been the item right in the middle. _I didn't get to my gun that night, _he thought, an unpleasant roar in his ears. _Where is it?_

Those keys, holy hell. Was that how they got in in first place? He pushed his stuff into a pile on the middle of the dresser, and got out clean clothes. He pulled a clean white t-shirt over his head before thinking about taking a shower. Screw it, he'd shower later. He got a blue dress shirt and a pair of tan slacks. After he dressed, he balled up the socks he'd taken from the hospital, and examined his foot. He groaned, wishing he'd gotten his hands on some quality painkillers before he left. Frowning, he grabbed his cell phone and called the hospital, which was one of the numbers on his speed dial. He would be responsible, even though he had no idea what he would tell Vick yet. As he waited for the right departments, something Shawn had said earlier inspired him.

Lately, he was finding too many lies in his mouth. He heard himself saying, "Yes, I did leave; no, I never knew that I sleepwalk. Though there _was_ a time my ex-wife found me in the kitchen at three in the morning getting out cereal, dead asleep. She liked to tell her friends at dinner parties." He made himself seem goofy and slightly confused. "Did you need me to come back in or can you just drop the bill in the mail?" He hated asking that. He sounded, at least to himself, like the biggest idiot. His wrist burned. "I just want to apologize again. I'm not usually like this," Lassiter said, the first true tidbit in the whole conversation.

He wandered into the front room when he thought he heard a scratching at his door. I'll have to get my locks changed, he thought. He yanked his front door open but no one was outside it. Cursing under his breath, he shut and locked it, feeling like a fool. On impulse he typed a message to Spencer that read, ÒSorry. I called the hospital," and sent it before he could change his mind. Three beats passed before his cell rang.

"Lassie, what you do mean you called the hospital?" Shawn asked over the phone. In the background was the rush of morning traffic. He must have just gotten there, or—

_A hand grabbed his shoulder_. He dropped the phone with a cry. He hadn't even heard anyone come in. Lassiter hunched his shoulders, whirling to face his intruder. Whatever color that was left on his face vanished. _No one was there._ He didn't hear Shawn calling his name over and over. He moved from room to room, startled to find each as empty as the rest. _God_, he would have _sworn_ that someone grabbed him just now. He made two full sweeps, when there was a loud pounding at his door. He stood there in his living room, staring at the door, feeling dizzy and nauseated again.

"Open the door!" a voice kept yelling from outside. Lassiter felt very far away. He turned his head. _I didn't look under the couch_, he thought. _What if the perp is hiding there?_ Though that would have been impossible unless the person was made of sticks; the space under there was small and tight.

His front door splintered, then broke open. That rushing in his ears again, the one that was becoming all too familiar. But then he thought how good it would be to sleep one whole night without being woken by strangers.

* * *

When Shawn heard Lassiter yell, and then wouldn't answer his calls, he hung up and called Juliet. She and Vick were at the lobby, about to leave anyway.

"Shawn, slow down. You're outside?"

"Look, don't ask me how but I think Lassie's in trouble! I sense he's at his apartment."

The two women met him outside where Shawn explained in person that he had "sensed" Lassie's distress. The trio hopped into Vick's car. They were outside Lassiter's door as quick as humanly possible, pounding and yelling and getting no answer. Finally Vick threw her shoulder against the door until it broke. The three were barely in the entrance two seconds when they saw Lassiter, in front of them, lose consciousness.

"Detective!" Vick yelled as Lassiter's eyes rolled back and he started to tumble forward, dead weight. Shawn and Juliet rushed forward, managing to break Lassiter's fall. They eased the older man onto his back. Shawn noticed Lassie's cell lying on the floor close to his head, a message on its screen reading "call ended". Juliet lightly slapped Carlton's cheeks to get him to come around. Shawn was more direct. He grabbed the full water glass from the coffee table and threw it right in Lassiter's face.

"Shawn!" Juliet chided, her eyes wide.

He zeroed in Lassiter's wrist again, now that it was exposed, despite the detective's nice dress shirt. The purple bruise now had yellow around its edge, and in the middle just over his veins, the bruise had turned black. "Oh, my god," he whistled. Lassiter started coming around when Juliet grabbed his wrist. Protectively, Lassiter yanked it from her and held it against his chest.

Juliet looked up at Vick, who was peering over the trio, with horror in her eyes. Vick gasped.

Though he knew he was pushing his luck, Shawn pressed his fingers against his head. "Chief, the spirits tell me that Lassie sleepwalked out of his room sometime in the night. And that he— what's that, spirits?" Lassiter overheard Shawn covering for him, and then heard a loud slap.

"Ow!" Shawn protested, looking up at Vick, who had just hit him in the forehead. "Police brutality!" She gave him a dark look that read, "Be serious."

"Great!" Shawn cried. "I lost the rest of what they were trying to say." He rubbed at his forehead. "You can't interrupt a psychic at work if you want to find out the truth."

Vick looked like she wanted to hit Shawn again when Lassiter groaned. He heard Vick, and then O'Hara, asking him if he was all right.

"What—happen'd?" he slurred. His right wrist flopped, and he could swear he tasted blood in his mouth.

"You passed out," Shawn told him. He paused and then said, "Are you hurt?"

"Walked—hosptial—they—" Images all fuzzy. He blinked and blinked. "Chasing me—had to get to work—" He hoped they could string together what he was trying to say; though he was suddenly slammed with the memory of promising some stranger he wouldn't talk to cops. His face got all hot. Another loud slap, though this one stung his cheek. Then another. He felt proud that he was becoming immune to feeling pain, and in such a short span of time.

"Call an ambulance," Vick barked to Juliet as she slapped Lasstier's face again. The Head Detective was unresponsive. She bent over, checking his pulse. It was racing. "Tell them he's breathing," Vick said, summing up his vitals as Juliet spoke to an operator.

Shawn got up, saying he'd meet the EMTs. No one acknowledged him. While waiting, Shawn went to Lassie's car. Though he'd figured Lassie was lying about the flat, he was a little startled when he saw all four tires slashed. He looked inside; a crumpled piece of paper lay on the floor of the front seat. Shawn, looking around, tried the passenger door. _Open. Huh_. He eased the door open and fished out the wad. As he opened it and focused on the scrawl, the ambulance pulled up. He pushed the car door closed, and went to meet it, shoving the note into his pocket.

As two paramedics climbed out with gear, Shawn filled them in, using the already thinly spun story. "He's got this sleepwalking problem," Shawn was saying. "Seriously, you should have been there for the office Christmas party after he had too many rum balls. It was _Night of the Living Dead_ in there. But, of course, we laughed and laughed." He led them in, explaining that the injured Detective had unknowingly left SB General but had somehow bruised his wrist along the way. "I threw up in my mouth a little, looking at it," Shawn said. "It looks like he bashed it into a brick wall or something."

By this time they were there. It was a rush, Juliet telling the EMTs that Lassiter had fainted; no, he'd come around once; no, he didn't seem to be in shock. The bulkier of the EMTs gave a low whistle when he got a look at Lassiter's wrist. Moving it back and forth still didn't make Lassiter stir.

* * *

This was the worst nightmare ever. Disinfectant smell, white walls, pristine floors, a needle stuck into his arm. This time when he opened his eyes three figures were in the room. Familiar, though. His junior partner, his boss, and Spencer. _Goddamn_. He was still in his clothes, except that his dress shirt was gone; his right wrist had been set in a brace and tightly wound with gauze. The plus side was he wasnÕt feeling any pain. He turned his head, looking at the worried trio.

"Hi," he said, his voice pinched. He was embarrassed and annoyed to be in front of them this vulnerable again; he cringed thinking about the way they'd just found him.

Shawn started to speak but Vick cut him off. "Is that all you can say, Detective?" Vick demanded.

"Ma'am?" he replied, startled.

She started chewing him out. "Of all the irresponsible behavior, leaving like that," she began.

Lassiter flushed but bit his tongue. "I don't remember leaving," he lied quietly.

"And then not answering your door. What was going through your head? You will tell me this instant, Detective, if you have withheld any details—"

This was getting too heated for both Shawn and Juliet. They both looked uncomfortable; Juliet actually looked queasy.

Vick shut her mouth all of a sudden. She offered a stiff apology, and left the room.

The air left was tense and stuffy. Eventually Lassiter made himself look at his two guests.

Shawn gave a fractured smile. "Hey, Lassie, you're awake," as if he'd just noticed.

"How do you feel, Carlton?" Juliet asked in a small voice.

Lassiter attempted a shrug. "Better, I guess."

"Do you remember what happened before we got there?"

Something flashed over Lassiter's face. He said, "Why were you at my place?"

Shawn spoke up. "Lassie, the spirits told me you were sick. I called Jules and Vick and we got to your apartment just as you were fainting."

Lassiter's jaw tightened. "Wonderful," he muttered.

"Carlton, how did you hurt your wrist?" Juliet blurted out.

"On the beach, I think I fell on it a couple times." The lie hissed in the air. Juliet nodded, but looked skeptical. She rose. "I think I should let you rest. Are you coming, Shawn?"

"I'll be there in a minute, Jules." Shawn gave her a 60 watt smile. After Juliet was gone, Shawn sighed loudly. "_That_ was the best you could come up with?" he chided Lassiter. Lassiter's mouth twitched.

"Look, Spencer, thanks for—" He tossed the phrase back and forth on his tongue before spitting it out. "My gun is gone."

Shawn knew this. "Hate to tell you, Lassie, but Vick already knows this."

Lassiter flinched. "Dammit. After you left, I looked for it, the main one, but it wasn't anywhere." Again, he toyed with the truth. "When you called me, I thought— shit, it sounds too crazy to say aloud." Lassiter's eyes shone and he offered a bitter smile.

"What sounds crazy?" Silence. Shawn frowned. Goddammit, Lassie was so stubborn. "Come on, Lassie, I'll see your crazy and raise you two loopies."

He hesitated and then said in a tight voice, "I would have sworn on my life that someone was in the apartment with me." He looked down. He sounded loopy now, damn Spencer. "But I looked and looked and no one was there."

Shawn stared back at Lassiter, and really wondered if Lassiter was losing his mind. He wanted to know why Lassiter had flinched before. What was the big deal about the missing gun? He thought about it. It was Lassiter's gun. Lassiter had vanished for 36 hours only to turn up in a bloody t-shirt, claiming he had misplaced his memory. Vick, and now Juliet, seeing that Lassiter's story was a little too convenient.

"It all looks bad," Shawn commented aloud. Lassiter winced. "I know," he continued, halfheartedly, "but maybe it's not that bad?" He was sheepish about it.

Lassiter used his good arm to push himself up in bed. "Face it, it's all bad."

"Well, since you;re in a bad mood already, I might as well tell you."

"What now?" Lassiter wasn't sure how much more he could take.

"Uh, while I was waiting for the ambulance"— Lassiter's forehead creased— "I checked out your car."

"And?"

"Your tires were slashed, Lassie. All of them."

Lassiter stared straight ahead. "Oh," he said after a second. Then, "Does Vick know?"

Shawn said he doubted it. "Your doors were unlocked too." He pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to the pale detective. "This was on the floor of the passenger side."

Lassiter read it silently, noticing the handwriting was the same as the other note.

_Ask for another day_

_Ask for something worth the price_

_you'll have pay_

_The stakes are up _

_Your odds are down_

He crumpled it as Juliet popped her head back in. "Shawn, are you coming?"

Shawn glanced at Lassiter. The detective's mouth was a tight line and his eyes looked wet. He turned his head away from the door and made fists as if he could contain the rage or fear that was threatening to come to the surface. Shawn didn't say anything to Lassiter as he walked out the door.

Vick returned a short time later, alone. She had calmed completely, but stood by the door until Lassiter acknowledged her. "Chief," he said, deflated. He no longer cared that he looked like hell. After Spencer was gone, he'd let a few tears slip out.

"Detective," she began, "I apologize again for the harsh way I spoke to you earlier. It was a shock to my system, I suppose, breaking down your door and seeing you topple to the floor was not what I was expecting."

"I'm sorry." He swallowed his other excuses.

Vick sighed. "Carlton, this is hard for me to say, but I think you should take some time off. The past few days seem to have taken a toll on you."

"Ma'am," Lassiter began, "really, I just need to get back to work."

Vick shook her head. "This is not up for discussion, Detective. This is a direct order. Take a few days, rest, heal and then I want you to make an appointment with the department psychoanalyst." Lassiter groaned before he could stop himself. Vick let it go. "After a few sessions, I will go over your evaluation and see if you are fit to be cleared for active duty."

Lassiter scowled. "Until then, desk duty?"

"You seem very unlike yourself, Carlton." She looked at him sincerely. "You are very rattled, jittery. It's understandable; post traumatic stress syndrome may be the cause of your memory loss." Lassiter bit his tongue even though it hurt; otherwise, he knew would spit out words that would either get him suspended or fired. "I will authorize two weeks of paid leave, if you require that much time."

It was almost a death sentence. He hated it; police work was his life. He knew Vick was offering him a trade, a favor for her reckless earlier accusations. Part of him felt she just wanted him out of the way, maybe to bring evidence to nail him for something he couldn't remember doing. The rational part knew she was doing what she thought was best for her lead detective; he seemed too shaken and paranoid to do his job correctly. He sighed; it bit him to admit she was right. He couldn't believe so much had changed so fast in four days.


	6. Chapter 5: Something's Closing In

**Chapter Five: Something's Closing In, And I Can't Do A Thing**

Disclaimer: As still not owning any of the as before mentioned stuff, I also do not own lyrics to The Vincent Black Shadow's _This Road Is Going Nowhere_, Metallica's lyrics to _I Disappear_ or any references to TGI Fridays, _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ or _Buffy the Vampire Slayer._

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Shawn worried about leaving Lassiter alone in the hospital overnight. He wanted to believe it would be a quiet night, but after seeing Lassiter's slashed tires, he had doubts. He debated telling Juliet about the slashed tires, but in the end kept it to himself. He wondered if he called his father if Henry would babysit Lassie for a few hours.

That would be a bad idea. Henry would want to know why, who, when, where, what and how and Shawn wasn't able to tell the whole truth. Gus would want to know that stuff too, but to a lesser degree. He wished he could tell Juliet even a little something; she had such a sweet face and innocent eyes and always looked receptive and welcoming. He caught a whiff of her shampoo, which smelled like Hawaiian flowers, as he walked next to her.

"I feel so bad for Carlton," Juliet said. "I don't think I've ever seen him in such bad shape."

"Hey, Jules, can I ask you something?" He got really close to her face, so that she was a little dizzy with the heady smell of him.

"Sure, Shawn." She was looking in his eyes expectantly.

"Do you?" He reached out and tucked a few stray strands of her golden locks behind her ear, letting his fingers brush her cheek.

"Do I what, Shawn?"

Shawn cleared his throat, blinked and half-turned, a faint pink on his cheeks. "Do you know how beautiful you look today?"

Juliet grinned and pulled back. "Shawn, that's very sweet, but I have a feeling you wanted to ask me something else."

"Oh, you have _feelings_ now, too?" he teased with a small grin.

She batted him playfully on the shoulder. "Shawn."

Shawn cleared his throat again, thinking, _Lassie, you owe me big time._ "Jules, do you think that Lassie's making up some story about being abducted and losing his memory?" he asked in a low voice.

Juliet stared back intently. "On or off the record?"

Shawn nodded. "I see how it is."

"Shawn, it's not that. As Carlton's friend and partner, I want to believe him. But as a detective, I have to look at all the facts. The story he toldÑ it seems outrageous. Though, I suppose I can admit, _on_ the record, that I can consider it slightly plausible."

"Slightly? How is it slightly plausible?" Shawn was really interested, plus he was taking advantage of leaning in close to her again.

Juliet shifted her weight. "If he hit his head and was unconscious for a long period of time, then I could see why he'd be so confused. Making stuff up at whims." She sighed. "I've never known him to have a skittish side. He's always been the straight arrow, the one to go when you have a problem, going out of his way to bring in the guilty and keep the innocent safe. All that." She smiled.

_But now he's the one who needs help,_ Shawn thought.

He parted with Juliet at the lobby. He called Gus on his way to his motorcycle. "Hey, buddy, are you done with drugs for today?"

"Very funny, Shawn," Gus's voice crackled.

"Look, can you meet me at the Psych office? I need to run some stuff by you."

"About what?"

"I can't tell you over the phone. Government ninjas may be listening in right now."

Gus sighed loudly. "Fine. Give me twenty minutes. Yes, I'll bring food."

Shawn pocketed his phone and maneuvered his bike out of the parking spot. He thought about the two cryptic notes Lassie had received. He sniffed, wondering if Lassie knew more about their possible meanings than he was letting on. The first one was really nagging at him. And then this business about Lassie thinking there was someone in his apartment. From the way he'd yelled, Shawn would have sworn on _his_ life that either Lassie was being attacked, or that he'd seen a really big spider. But if it was just a creepy crawly, why didn't he pick up the phone and cover his embarrassment with unwarranted anger? Though Shawn had tried to joke, at least to himself, he was stunned to see Lassie in his current condition. The whole thing was spooky, really. Eerie.

After Shawn raided the fridge at the Psych office, he sat down at his computer and typed the words he remembered from the first note into Google. Shawn found they were from a song by Metallica called "I Disappear." Suppressing a shiver, he clicked on a link that asked if he wanted to hear the full song. While he listened to it, he looked over the page with its lyrics. There were other phrases in the song that Shawn found to be scarier, but none beside the line "Here I go into new days" that had the same resonance as what had been on the note.

He wondered what it meant that Lassie was getting a note that implied there wasn't any "mercy" left for him.

Still listening, he opened another window. He only remembered the first couple lines of the other note; it had been very chilling anyway, but when he remembered Lassiter's reaction, he felt extra creeped out. He wished Lassie would stop making him beg for information. He was having a difficult time discerning if Lassiter was just an idiot or if he was trying to protect Shawn from something. _Oh. Maybe he was _guilty_. Of something. _Shawn knew that Lassie was definitely scared, and he had every right to be.

Shawn's hand hesitated on the office phone. He wondered who would be more pissed if he called his father, Henry or Lassiter? He tried to think up a good lie to tell his father that the man wouldn't see through and wouldn't demand a bunch of answers from the tight lipped detective. He sighed. He wasn't going to call his father. At first, he thought Henry might buy his "police brutality" story (okay, maybe for a second) but then he figured that Henry would just laugh when he found out why Vick slapped Shawn. He could already hear the start of an argument with his father in his head, and shook it away as hard as he could.

This is what Gus walked into, holding a take-out container from TGI-Fridays. Shawn pushed his hands against forehead and then got a whiff of the greasy, warm food. "Dude, is that fried macaroni and cheese?"

"Yup, and fried green beans, fried zucchini, and bacon sour cream potato skins."

"What, you eat healthy now?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "What was so urgent?" He eyed the remains of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at Shawn's elbow, and then heard the song that Shawn had left on a loop on the web page. "Is that Metallica? Since when do you like heavy metal?"

"Huh? Oh, no, it's a project for Lassie." Shawn turned the speaker volume down.

Gus raised his eyebrows, making his face look like a huge question mark. "Why are you doing favors for Lassiter?"

"Well, he doesn't know I'm doing it." When Gus's face became an impassible mask, Shawn continued, "I think he's in a lot of trouble. He may know this, but he's in complete denial about it."

"Shawn, please tell me you're kidding. I know you were in the office when Vick said the case is closed."

"And Gus, you were in the car when we drove to Lassie's and found SBPD's finest snooping around. And don't try to tell me they were snooping around someone else's place."

Gus sniffed, sitting down. "It could happen."

"Yeah, no, I don't think so. Something bigger is going on here, but I don't have all the details yet. It would help if Lassie would stop vehemently denying that he needs help of the psychic persuasion."

"You mean the _fake_ psychic persuasion."

Shawn looked offended. "No, real help. Fake psychic."

"Shawn, that's what I just said," Gus grumbled, popping some fried cake into his mouth. "Damn, this is like a little slice of macaroni and cheese heaven."

Shawn took a handful of assorted fried foods, turning his head back to the screen. The other page had loaded. He clicked on it, scanning the title of the song but not bothering with the lyrics. His eyes highlighted the title of the song, and then he clicked on the other page with Metallica's lyrics.

"Huh, that's funny," Shawn mumbled. Gus was too absorbed in his snack to comment.

The first words on the first note Lassiter had received had read "I went, I went on down that road" (with the actual title of the song being "I Disappear"). The words from the second note were from a song with the title, "This Road Is Going Nowhere."

"Dude, that is seriously freaky," Shawn muttered to himself.

"What is?" Gus asked, peering over Shawn's shoulder.

_He, Lassie, went on a road . . . where he disappeared . . . but the road is going nowhere,_ Shawn thought out carefully. "Gus, do me a favor. Read those lyrics aloud." Shawn clicked on the page for emphasis.

Gus scanned the page. "The Vincent Black Shadow? Isn't that a motorcycle?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Yes, but it's apparently the name of a band too. Can you just read?"

"Fine. I wish you'd tell me what's going on, though."

"Gus, I'm _trying _to figure out what's going on," Shawn said in a tight voice.

Gus read the first verse, and then the chorus, then the second verse:

#

_"I surprise the senses with a sign of fright_

_Between the color and the black and white _

_Of what you see_

_I feel a stranger coming onto me_

_I brought it on but I could never be_

_The one to get to the point then shut up._

_#  
_

_"Ask for another day_

_Ask for something worth the price_

_You'll have to pay_

_The stakes are up_

_Your odds are down_

_Step right up for around round_

_The spade's up your sleeve_

_The sweat on your brow_

_And I will be damned_

_If I let you back into this town._

_#  
_

_"You disguise intentions with an olive branch_

_You made a killing and a lot of fans_

_Except for me_

_The way you speak is contradictory_

_I know the lies you're talking back to me_

_Why don't you get to the point then shut up?"_

_#  
_

"Okay, you can stop," Shawn told Gus. He seemed deep in thought, scanning the verses and chorus over and over again. He knew there was a meaning in here somewhere; he needed more pieces before he could make any sense of it.

Gus was quiet, waiting for Shawn to finish his train of thought. He watched his best friend wavering and finally broke in, "Shawn, what does all of this mean?"

"I don't know yet. But I think it may have something to do with Lassie's 36 hour disappearance. And maybe even his memory loss."

"What? It's just lyrics. I don't get the significance. How are you connecting this song to Lassiter?"

Shawn made a sheepish face. "You're gonna wanna sit down for this. It might take a while to explain. You see, Gus, a lot has happened in the past 24 hours . . . ."

Gus listened to Shawn explain everything that had happened after Shawn called him before he broke into Lassiter's apartment. His eyes were wide, and he seemed to have a hard time believing what Shawn was telling him were cold hard facts. "Gus, you haven't seen him since he was found on LeadBetter Beach," Shawn reminded him. "Actually, I wasn't planning on seeing him either; I was kind of startled when he turned up."

"Shawn, it's his apartment. He lives there."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I know that, but he was supposed to be at the hospital. He was in bad enough shape then."

Gus shook his head. "That doesn't sound like Lassiter at all. Climbing out a window like he was—"

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "—Like he was being chased," he finished. "I had to almost beat the truth out of him." Okay, this was a bit of an exaggeration. All he'd had to do was be a pain in the ass and threaten to call Vick.

"But doesn't that sound impossible to you? How does someone get in the hospital way after visiting hours, after they've locked the doors so people are basically stuck in the lobby until morning? And to go right to his room, without any of the nightshift nurses seeing him? Don't you think if one of them saw someone trying to enter a police detective's room at two in the morning, they would have stopped him?"

"Huh," Shawn nodded. This did sound more plausible than Lassiter's story.

Gus eyed Shawn. "And then he tells you just now in the hospital that the reason he dropped his cell phone in his apartment was that he thought someone was in there with him? But that no one was?"

"He said he couldn't _find_ anyone."

Gus shook his head. "It sounds like he's paranoid, Shawn. Like he's just making stuff—"

"For what?" Shawn retorted, finding it funny that he felt he had to defend Lassie. "To get attention?"

Gus threw up his hands. "I don't know. No, I guess that doesn't sound like him. But, Shawn, none of this sounds like him."

Shawn nodded. Clean-cut, by-the-book, no nonsense (though he did put up with a lot of nonsense from Shawn) Lassiter. It was almost like he was a completely different person.

"I got it!" Shawn's eyes lit up. "It's not Lassiter. It's his evil twin!"

Gus made a face that resembled a wince and scowl at the same time.

"Or, maybe he's a pod person! Maybe we are in that _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ movie and we just don't know it!"

"Shawn." Shawn suddenly surprised Gus by slamming his palm on the desk, giving Gus a sideways look that said he was being sarcastic for Gus's benefit. Gus was not amused.

"This is the point, Gus," Shawn began, looking his best friend in the eyes. "It's _not_ at all like Lassie." He huffed. "And I know it's not his evil twin or his pod person replacement."

Gus almost smiled when he blurted out, "Or his robot twin, like from that episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer, _where some robot guy makes a robot copy of Buffy."

Bewildered, Shawn stared at Gus. He started to ask why anyone needed a "robot copy" of Buffy but was able to stop himself. He gave Gus a small grin in spite of himself.

"To answer your question about the lyrics, it seems someone has been leaving Lassie anti-love notes." He told Gus about the first note.

"Is that why you were listening to that song?" Gus interrupted.

Shawn nodded, and then remembered it was still playing. He turned the volume up.

#

_". . . .bury me when I'm gone_

_Do you teach me while I'm here_

_Just as soon as I belong_

_Then it's time I disappear_

_#  
_

_Hey, hey, hey_

_And I went, I went on down that road . . ."_

_#  
_

Shawn turned the volume down again. "And the other lyrics" Gus pressed.

"That one part in the chorus was on this piece of paper in Lassie's car, the first five lines. Oh, and did I mention Lassie's tires were slashed?"

Gus's mouth felt dry. Everything Shawn was telling him seemed like a matter for police or some other higher authority equipped for dealing with situations like this. But those variables had never stopped Shawn before. "And why can't he just tell Vick all this?"

Shawn shook his head. "At first I didn't get it, but I think he feels like he can't trust her."

Gus rolled his eyes. "What, another paranoid thing?"

Shawn shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. But you were there when she admitted that Lassie's abduction story sounds sketchy."

"Because it does sound sketchy." He looked at Shawn's face and then amended, "But if Lassiter believed—" He had a hard time getting the words out. His first instinct was to throw Lassiter to the wolves, in spite of the polite front he usually put on when in front of the detectives. It was partly because Lassiter was always razzing Shawn about something, and partly because his logical mind told him to always look at all the evidence. And if the evidence was pointing in a certain direction, well, then it was almost certain to be the truth.

Gus sighed. He knew he was going to go along with Shawn's train of thought, because even when he managed to tell Shawn no, Shawn usually ignored his protests anyway. "So, what now?"

"Well, I'm kind of thinking Lassie needs to babysat while he's in the hospital. Just in case."

"But visiting hours end at 8 or 9. Then what?"

Shawn popped the last fried macaroni and cheese cake into his mouth, thinking as he chewed. "Well, maybe we could sneak in—"

Gus snorted, "Yeah, right. Wouldn't that make Lassiter panic even more?"

"What if I—" Shawn's eyes gleamed wickedly.

Gus held up his hand. "Whatever you're thinking, drop it, unless you want to end up getting dragged out by hospital security." He sighed again. "Besides, Shawn, you said that Lassiter's been resisting your help anyway."

Shawn shook his head."He's just freaked out. Besides," he countered, "Lassie's not the kind of guy who just asks for help when he needs it. He thinks he's capable enough to resolve all of his own problems."

Gus thought about this. "So . . . he ends up, uh, fainting , for example, because of that?"

Shawn agreed. "Though that's probably the least of his problems."

* * *

"Shawn, I appreciate your concern, but you know I can't authorize officers to stay with Carlton. If there were some valid threat, you know we would have at least one uniform outside his door." Juliet explained this to Shawn slowly, in person, at the station. He thought about calling her and faking some emergency, but then he thought about earlier in the day and was a bit chagrined by that thought. He and Gus decided, after ruling out, again, calling Henry, and going back to the hospital right away, to visit Juliet at the police station.

"But Jules, I know that you can _feel_ something else is going on here." Then his eyes gleamed in the devious way he had, and he leaned in close with a mischievous smile, just to get another whiff of her.

"Shawn, focus," Gus stage whispered, his hands cupped around his mouth.

Juliet rolled her eyes, though in an appreciative way. "But seriously, Jules. Don't you think all of this is just a little too convenient?"

"Which part?" Juliet said, then lowered her voice as other officers passed by. She motioned them down the hall, to one of the empty interrogation rooms.

Shawn offered a full shrug, tossing his hands to lighten the mood even more. "It—doesn't it kind of feel like a set up?"

"What kind of set up? So far, we aren't even sure there were any crimes committed."

"That's what I mean."

"Huh?" Juliet looked puzzled, trying follow Shawn's train of thought. Gus sat down in one of the chairs to wait.

"Well, right now, it's all just Lassie's word, right?"

"Sure."

"And well you, and maybe even Chief Vick, can admit that you _could_ believe Lassie— you can't."

Juliet's brow knitted together. Shawn found himself admiring the cute way she scrunched up her nose. "See, there were no witnesses. At least not yet. No one's come forward to corroborate his—"

"Sanity," Gus broke in. It was mean and Gus knew it. Shawn gave him a withering look but dropped it.

Juliet nodded. "Gus, I do see where you're coming from," she said to Shawn's "What?" She held up her hand. "Shawn, and Gus, I do see where you are both coming from," she repeated. "This situation with Carlton, it's touchy." She dropped her voice again, even though they were alone. "I am on his side, crazy or not"— she gave Shawn a look of emphasis that she didn't really believe Lassiter was "crazy"— "but the Chief just wonders if he's been keeping something to himself that he shouldn't."

Shawn sighed. "Yeah, I wonder that too." He got an uneasy feeling all of a sudden; he couldn't place where it was coming from, but he motioned Gus to get up. "Thanks, Juliet. We've got to go." He wasn't looking at her. She walked them out, trying to catch Shawn's eye but he was distracted.

Once they were outside, Gus punched him in the shoulder. "Ow," Shawn grunted. "What's wrong with you?" Gus demanded. "I thought you wanted to ask Juliet to help us."

Shawn nodded, his hand still on his shoulder. "Yeah. I did."

"So, why did you just walk out of there?"

Shawn shook his head. "I thought it would be a good idea, but I dunno. Something about this whole thing is nagging." He stopped Gus before he could take a jab at him, about him being the "thing that was nagging." "You saw those lyrics." By now they were back at Gus's car.

"Yeah, but how do you think they fit into the big picture?"

"Don't know yet. Look, Gus, there's something I didn't tell you—"

"Not you too," Gus mumbled, pulling onto the road.

A flash of anger passed over Shawn's face and he barely suppressed the urge to punch Gus in the shoulder; it would have sucked if the punch caused a fender bender. He took in a loud breath and muttered, "Forget it."

They drove along in silence for a few minutes before Gus apologized. "What were you going to say?" Shawn was still quiet, mulling things over. Gus was about to give up and let the silence play itself out; figuring they'd be fine again the next day, when Shawn spoke up.

"Lassie had a really bad reaction to that second note. It was uncomfortable for me. I had to leave the room."

Gus glanced away from the road. "Seriously?" Shawn nodded while Gus was still looking. "Whoa," he added quietly, trying to picture it.

"I don't know, I guess I figured confiding in Juliet would be helpful, but I started feeling like there has to be a good reason why Lassiter is keeping things to himself."

"You aren't getting paranoid too, are you?" Gus asked quietly, his voice very serious. He had caught Shawn looking behind them for a long glance when they'd pulled away from the station, as if he expected someone to follow them. "I mean, you can get paranoid by proxy, can't you?" he added, still serious.

Shawn was touched by Gus's concern. He smiled. "Don't worry, bud. You'll know if I get paranoid because I would probably call you twenty-five times in ten minutes, insist a dinosaur should be a murder suspect, and try to communicate with a cat who may be the sole witness to a crime."

Tension gone, Gus let a few beats go by before he said, "Shawn, don't you already do those things?"

Shawn smiled. "Oh. Do I? Well, I guess then you have nothing to worry about."

Gus dropped Shawn off at the Psych office. Shawn said he wanted to do more research; though Gus suspected that he would spend a lot of that time on online poker or the like. Shawn said he planned to drop by the hospital before visiting hours ended, and that he'd call Gus later if anything came up, and if not, tomorrow morning.

After Gus left, Shawn sat back down at his computer. Turning the monitor back on, he saw that it was just after 6pm. Okay, he'd research for maybe a hour and then motor over to check up on Lassiter. He could already see Lassie's unwelcome scowl. Shawn chuckled. The faint strains of the song he'd left on the loop filtered through the speakers. Shawn pulled up the page and clicked on the X in the top right corner to close the page and stop the song. He didn't really want to hear it anymore. He opened the page with its lyrics, and clicked that one closed with a sigh too.

_I should ask Lassie if he knows what those notes mean,_ Shawn thought. _Or at least explain that they are lyrics. Maybe they are songs he heard while he was . . . missing. Hmm._

Shawn looked over the other page again. He read the words over and over until his vision blurred. He sat back, locking his hands behind his head. _Ask for another day. Ask for something worth the price you'll have to pay. _Shawn closed his eyes. He felt very tired, the events of the day wearing on him. He thought about that table in Lassiter's place that he knew had been moved. That had to be significant somehow. He couldn't imagine Lassiter standing around in what little free time the detective had, thinking his end table might look better pulled up just a little from the couch.

He snapped his fingers. Phone records. That was one of those things he'd wanted to ask Jules about. But he'd chickened out. Juliet had basically told him that there was nothing she could do unless there was proof a crime had been committed. He was frustrated about all the red tape. Lassiter hadn't called 911 that night. He hadn't called Juliet, Buzz, or Vick, or anyone else who could have come to his aid. What if he just hadn't had the chance?

Shawn leaned forward again, but still found the words too blurry. He was churning the phrases around in his head when he rested his head on the desk on his folded arms. He just wanted to rest his eyes for a few minutes.

Shawn jerked awake when the office door opened. He groaned, his back and neck stiff from being in such an awkward position for too long. Bleary eyed, he turned towards the footsteps, blinking in the bright light. _What time is it?_

"Shawn?" Gus asked, looking down at his friend. Gus had changed his clothes, and was carrying a cardboard tray with two travel cups in it and a paper bag whose sides had soaked up grease. "Did you fall asleep here?" While Shawn tried to creakily stretch his sore muscles, Gus went on, "You did, didn't you? You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday."

_Yesterday?_ "Maybe I had a really hot date," Shawn mumbled tiredly. He stretched out his legs and yawned. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

For a moment Shawn was confused as to whether that was am or pm. Judging by how light it was in the office, and ah, now Shawn could see the sun was out, it was obviously day.

He winced. "Lassie. I never made it to hospital."

"What happened, Shawn?" Gus handed Shawn a coffee while opening the paper bag. He managed to take a huge bite of powdered donut without getting a single speck of sugar on his clean dress shirt.

"Ah. Nothing. I was looking over those lyrics again and I just got really sleepy. I was just going to rest my eyes for a second." He stood up. He wondered if he should call Juliet, but then thought better of it.

"So you were asleep in here all night, with the door unlocked?"

"Geez, who's the paranoid one now, Gus?" He yawned again, getting out a sugary coated donut. He took a large bite, jelly oozing down his chin. He wiped at it with his left hand, and then made like he was going to reassure Gus that he was okay with a pat on the shoulder. Gus saw what he was doing and jumped a mile with a sneer that practically yelled not to try that. Shawn laughed. He finished the donut in one gulp, and reached for another.

"So, do you want to swing by the hospital?" Gus asked, watching Shawn wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Yeah. Then I want to go home and change." Gus sniffed the air. Shawn made a face, then rolled his eyes. "Okay, I guess it's shower day too." He followed Gus out, locking the office behind him. "Then after that, I want to check out Leadbetter Beach where they found Lassie." Gus threw him a sideways glance. Shawn set his face and nodded. If the police wanted to ignore what was right in front of them, he'd have to take matters into his own hands. After all, that's how he'd ended up Head (Fake) Psychic of the Santa Barbara Police Department.

* * *

They'd been joking on the elevator, but once they got onto Lassie's floor, Shawn heard a large group of people, seeming to all talk at once. He and Gus exchanged a glance and then jogged down the hallway towards the voices. The large group turned out to be Santa Barbara police officers, mostly uniformed, standing outside of Lassiter's room. The door was closed; Shawn's eyes darted around, trying to pick up anything useful. _What had happened?_ His head swam with fear; did this happen because he had fallen asleep? The officers; Buzz McNab was included, didn't stop their low conversation when they spotted the pair. Buzz's face moved for a minute and then Juliet's slim frame appeared, her hair pulled back as usual, her face pinched. Shawn noted that it looked like she'd been crying, or at least on the verge. She mumbled something to a couple of the officers and then stepped out towards the pair. _What had happened?_ Shawn thought again, a rushing in his ears. _Was Lassiter . . . dead? _

* * *

Lassiter's eyes shone. He thought, after all that hard already happened, that now was the time he might be going into shock. His good arm had been handcuffed to the railing of the hospital bed. He tugged at it as if it might not really be there. Its clang made a hollow sound. He forced air into his lungs. He couldn't believe that little more than thirty minutes had been passed since he'd been served a warrant for his arrest. Since his own junior partner, O'Hara, had stood over his bedside and read him his rights. There were other officers in the room, coworkers and friends of his, but he could barely see them. He stared up at Juliet, incredulous, his face contorted with horror as she read off the charge. Juliet was trying her best not to be emotional, but after the speech was over, her face crumpled, and she had to turn away.

* * *

"Murder?!" Shawn practically yelled. He and Gus were standing outside of Lassiter's room. Juliet, barely composed, ushered them down the hallway. He was as incredulous as Lassiter had been. "Juliet, what's going on?"

"Shawn," her voice was strained. "A body was found in an abandoned pavilion three miles from Leadbetter Beach. The victim, a John Doe, was shot in the throat; he must have bled out immediately." She looked pale at her own words. "They found Lassiter's gun on the scene. It was the murder weapon."

"So, but his gun was unaccounted for—" Shawn began.

Juliet shook her head. She looked very close to tears. "There's more. That t-shirt that Lassiter was wearing when he was found— that unidentified blood belongs to the vic, Shawn."


	7. Chapter 6: Didn't Mean To Hurt You, Boy

**Chapter Six: Didn't Mean To Hurt You, Boy, But This Is How It's Done**

**——————————————————————————————————————————  
**

Author's Note: There is a slightly disturbing image near the end of this chapter.

_________________________________________________________________________

Shawn was shaking a little himself. Things had just taken the worst possible turn. He reached out and embraced Juliet without thinking. "There has to be some other explanation," Shawn hushed to her hair.

"Maybe it was an accident," Gus said helpfully. Then he winced. No one noticed.

"I—I can't believe it," Juliet whispered, right in Shawn's ear, confiding a truth that only he would know, one that she would never be giving up to Vick or any of else who pressed her. If they did, she would only offer her best advice— wearing the well trained, well placed face of her career path. But in her heart, she knew what was true. She knew her partner, her friend, was not a murderer.

"I know," Shawn hissed back. "Please, let me figure this out," he continued, feeling her tense. She knew if she agreed (or even if she didn't) he'd be heading straight for shark filled waters. Just because he wasn't dripping blood yet didn't mean interests wouldn't still be piqued. It was hard to let him go, even if she hadn't yet admitted her heart's pull towards his. She wanted to toss out her net, ensnare him and reel him in, safe, close to her heart. Juliet thought all this in one brief second, while she felt tears spill over her partner's immediate fate. _He's innocent,_ she thought. _He _can't_ be guilty of these things_.

Shawn held onto Juliet for what seemed like ages. She was the first one to pull away, delicately wiping at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "I have to get back. Carlton is in shock," she confided. "Shock." She paused, shaking her head. "He _really doesn't _remember."

"Can he have visitors?" Gus asked, because for once Shawn didn't look like he knew how to phrase his own questions.

Juliet shrugged. "He's still a patient, but I don't know, because now he's under arrest."

"Can we see him?" Gus repeated, giving Shawn a shove forward. Shawn finally seemed to come back to life, and tore his eyes from Juliet's face.

Juliet looked over her shoulder at her fellow officers, conspiratorially. "Make it fast. All we need is one of them saying one word to Vick. I can take being reprimanded all day, but I will hate myself if I get you guys in trouble."

There was a faint smile on Shawn's lips. "Don't worry, Jules," he said softly. "If there's trouble, I'll take it onto me."

Juliet watched the pair walk towards Lassiter's room, awestruck by Shawn's statement. That's what he seemed to do anyway, make some great sacrifice that was always masked by some seemingly selfish gesture. Shawn Spencer was fiercely protective and loyal. He was always willing to walk right into stray gunfire, if he could spare anyone he cared about pain. The feeling came like a wave, hitting her again and again. She knew if would take her a long time to say its name aloud, let alone say it to Shawn. But it was there, right there, pounding in her chest, like lifeblood.

When Gus and Shawn got close to Lassiter's room, Shawn began gesticulating that he needed to see Lassiter because he was having a vision. Shawn made himself seem extra special creepy so that the group parted with very few words. After they shut the door, Shawn dropped the act.

Lassiter's eyes were open, wide open blue, staring. Gus's instinct was to stay by the door; the detective was unblinking, as if the life had gone from him completely. Working on murder cases with Shawn, Gus saw dead bodies nearly weekly, but never grew used to it. He still got faint at the sight of blood, his stomach quelled. He was lucky he always ran before he vomited. It was not a pretty line of work for his squeamishness.

Shawn went all the way into the room, not even noticing Gus had frozen at the door. "Lassie?" Shawn asked. His voice was very loud in the hollow room. Lassiter blinked. Shawn could see it was an effort; he ignored the fact that Lassiter's face was wet. He had a flashback to yesterday, but pushed forward.

Lassiter grunted, and the handcuffs clanged against the railing. Lassiter was trying to spit something out, a jumble of words that Shawn wondered even made sense to the shell-shocked detective.

"Spencer." Shawn stopped a few feet from Lassiter's bed. Still a pause.

"We don't think you're guilty," Shawn said gently, throwing a glance to Gus, who was still frozen at the door. He sighed loudly. "I don't think you're guilty." He leaned in conspiratorially, and stage whispered, "If you can keep a secret, Jules thinks you're innocent too."

There was almost a tiny smile in Lassiter's eyes, but it was gone immediately, when his blue eyes filled up. Lassiter turned his head, shrugged firmly, and then turned back. "I need something," he said, not looking at Shawn. Shawn got closer, thinking that what he needed was immediate, a glass of water or such. Shawn was embarrassed, though he hoped he kept it off his face well, to see that Lassiter was fighting tears, when he got closer.

"There's a glass, in my apartment, Spencer," Lassiter said in low voice, "it's on the table next to my bed."

"Okay," Shawn nodded, trying to follow.

Lassiter clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. "That night . . . they took me . . . well, they gave me something from that glass."

Shawn's brow furrowed. He looked at Lassiter with questions in his eyes.

Lassiter shook his head slowly, indicating that he didn't have all the answers. More questions than answers, actually. "The glass was against my lips and whatever liquid was in it was down my throat before I could barely blink," Lassiter said, his voice even lower. He was looking Shawn right in the eyes, such an intense gaze that Shawn couldn't tear his eyes away. Shawn nodded. "Spencer, I think there may be some residue in that glass—"

Shawn nodded, fully understanding. "So we could find out what was in it."

Lassiter looked away for a moment, and then back to Shawn. "I don't remember anything. I could have killed—" He shook his head violently, still there, blackness. Emptiness. He couldnÕt see a thing.

Shawn gave a smile, trying to be reassuring. "Dude, we're gonna figure this out." Gus managed to take a step forward. "You're really more the 'stop-or-I'll-shoot' type, not the 'cold-blooded killer' type," he added, smiling now with his eyes. "I just can't believe you have that type in you."

Lassiter didn't speak for a long time. He eventually gave a look full of so much gratitude that Shawn knew there wouldn't ever be the right words to convey the idea. "Do you need us do anything, um, else?" Gus spoke up, two steps from the door. "Like get you some real food?" Lassiter tried to smile, but it was all watery. "No, I think if you can just do that one thing—"

"Maybe some of your memory would come back?" Shawn asked.

Lassiter shrugged, and the handcuff made a hollow clink again. "It's better than thinking I'm guilty by proxy." He scowled, and burst out, "Goddammit. I wish I could remember something." He looked up at Shawn, then Gus, who looked mildly queasy. He rolled his eyes a little. "Guster, you can wait outside, with O'Hara. I know hospital rooms make you sick."

That was all Gus needed. He nodded tightly and was out the door before Shawn had three words of protest. He looked at Lassiter questionably.

Lassiter shrugged again. "I thought he might puke. He looked kind of green." Shawn seemed like he was waiting for Lassiter to go on. "All I remember is . . . what I said. Two guys, I think they were male, in my apartment. Standing over my bed, shaking me awake. I fought them. . . . I guess I lost. Then . . . bright light. Noonday. A beach that may have well been a goddamn desert. Walking a long time. Getting that godforsaken glass in my foot. Then, all those kids. A girl screaming." Lassiter looked faraway.

"Lassie," Shawn interrupted suddenly. "In your apartment, when I was there, you were mumbling something in your sleep. Do you remember what was going on?"

Lassiter thought hard. His nerves had been frayed, the pain in his wrist so intense that sleep had ushered in brief but sweet release. But he had been dreaming something. Its images had been so vivid then he was certain he was standing there, in the moment. He reached back, back.

"'Don't go to the police'," Lassiter blurted out suddenly.

"What? Lassie, I think it's a little too late for—"

Lassiter shook his head with some irritation. "No, Spencer. The dream. I was telling— no, wait. Someone was telling me."

Shawn's eyes widened. "Someone was _telling you_ not to go to the police?"

Lassiter thought, and then nodded. "Yeah. I was repeating it." He shuddered, his tall frame shaking under the sheets. "I guess it _is_ too late."

Shawn took a step back, his eyes on Lassie's handcuffed wrist. He thought about the notes, the copied keys, the slashed tires, the moved table. Little pieces. With dread he wondered if these stupid things were just the beginning, rather than small pieces that created a whole. Damn. That meant there would be a lot of little missing pieces.

Shawn started to ask Lassiter about the notes when the room door swung open. Shawn threw Lassiter an apologetic glance, and moved towards it, pressing his fingers against his head, moaning a little about a head splitting vision. He kept his head down on the way out, hoping that this new arrival wasn't Vick or some other authority he'd have lie to directly. Lying was much better when there was actual proof to back it up.

Once outside, Shawn picked his way through the crowd back to Jules and Gus. He hated to see Jules so distraught. "You really think this is going to stick?" Shawn asked her. "The guy's got no memory of doing anything bad."

"It is pretty circumstantial," Gus commented. He looked at Juliet. "Are there witnesses who saw Lassiter kill this guy?"

Juliet shook her head. "None that have come forward yet. But the shirt that he was wearing, his gun—" She looked around, to make sure what she was about to say wouldn't reach anyone else's ears. "You cannot repeat this," she told them seriously. "After you guys left Chief Vick's office, the day after Carlton was found, she told me that she had ordered his bloodwork to be tested for anything that wasn't supposed to be there." They waited expectantly. "She didn't tell him she was doing it though."

"Isn't that against his rights?" Gus asked quietly. He shrugged, not knowing for sure.

Juliet chewed her lip. "Maybe. She might not be able to use it if were for a case, but—" She shook her head once to clear it. "The results came back clean. Either that means that Carlton lied about being given a sedative or that whatever he'd been given had worked its way through his system by the time he was found."

Shawn nodded. This meant, vaguely, that Vick couldn't use it against Lassiter in court, but it also left a lot of holes. He thought about the glass Lassiter had begged him to get. Maybe if there wasn't anything left in his blood, this glass could give them some kind of clue. His jaw tightened, thinking the way Lassiter's door had been left, splintered and broken. Plus, whomever the real criminals were, they had a key to Lasstier's door anyway. But why hadn't they taken the glass when they'd cleaned up the rest of the place?

"Shawn? Shawn?" He realized Gus was speaking to him. "You've been silent for almost three minutes. What are you thinking?"

Shawn turned to Jules, who was now the one to look at him expectantly. "Jules, would one of those temporary locks been put on Lassie's apartment door?" To Juliet and Gus, this seemed like a question out of the blue.

"Uh, yes," Juliet replied, seeming to count back. "It's procedure since the Chief had to kick open the door. Why do you ask?"

Shawn shrugged. He wanted to tell her some of what Lassie had said, but then he thought of how afraid the detective was. Against his better judgment, he confided something to her.

"I noticed something, when I was outside, waiting for the EMTs." He shot a look at Gus, as if asking for guidance, but Gus wasn't sure what information Shawn was about to divulge, so he could only offer a half-shrug. "I'm pretty sure it was Lassie's car, even though I hope, for once, I'm wrong."

"_What_ was his car?" Juliet repeated.

Shawn swallowed, picturing himself walking around the car again. "This car had each of its tires slashed."

He let that information sink in. Juliet's eyes were as wide and glassy as marbles. She started to react loudly, but stopped herself. She stared at Shawn, incredulous for few moments, before some anger crept over her features. "And you are just telling me this now?"

Shawn was taken aback, but he tried to hide it. "Well, it kind of went to the back of my mind with everything," he muttered.

Juliet tried to process this new information. She was angry at herself to discover she had a hard time believing Shawn all of a sudden. She wondered if she'd said too much; Vick would be more than pissed if she knew Juliet had spilled confidential facts pertaining to the murder case against her partner. She wanted to slap Shawn, taking a step forward with her hand half raised. She froze, seeing the stunned look in Shawn's green eyes. "I'm sorry," she apologized softly. "I don't know what got into me."

The moment had passed where Shawn would have reached out to her and hugged her. He was stock still. Shawn wondered if it was a mistake offering her only small details when he knew he couldn't possibly give her much more until he knew those facts himself.

Gus shifted uncomfortably in the silence. Part of him wanted to bolt for another java shot and the other part wanted to bolt just because he didn't have anything to contribute. Finally, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "What are all these officers doing here?"

Juliet unfroze, seeming to notice the group for the first time. "Vick sent some of them. She's trying to get Carlton's doctors to release him from care so she can take him to interrogation."

It seemed extra harsh; Lassiter obviously didn't want to be in the hospital in the first place, let alone cuffed to his bed. "Some of them are here for moral support, before for me and for him." She looked upset again. "Some are here to gawk. And the rest are here to help transport him should the order come through."

Gus made a sour face. "Gawk? Honestly?"

Juliet nodded sadly.

Shawn let his exasperation show. "Interrogate him, really?"

"It's procedure, Shawn."

He threw up his hands. "Lassie doesn't remember anything—" Several of the officers had glanced their way when Shawn's voice rose. He made himself calm down. He knew he couldn't help the detective clear his name if he didn't get all the facts. "Jules, you think you can swing us a pass to the Leadbetter Beach crime scene?"

"No. You know that if you want to be on this case you'll have to go through the Chief." Shawn made a growly sound; he knew Vick was doing her job, but all the red tape sucked. "Look, Shawn, IÕm as under her thumb as you," she whispered this. "She ordered me to place Carlton under arrest. It was horrible. I hated doing that to him, especially when I'm not convinced that he did pull that trigger."

Shawn mulled this over. Juliet's phone rang. She stepped away from Shawn and Gus to answer it.

"Shawn, what'd Lassiter say to you after I left?" Gus asked.

"Same stuff, mostly," Shawn replied. "But he remembered something."

"What? Anything useful? Like shooting someone?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I just want to know," Gus amended.

"I was at his place looking for clues, and he showed up after escaping from here. He ended up falling asleep and he was mumbling something that seemed pretty intense. I asked him just now if he remembered what might've been going on and he blurts out that someone was telling him not to go to the police." Shawn had dropped his voice almost to a whisper.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Dunno. That's all he said. It's little to go on, but it's something. After we leave here, we have to go to Lassie's place and get that special thing he asked for." Shawn winked at Gus, who nodded covertly. Just because he had been hovering by the door didn't mean he hadn't been listening.

"What do you think Juliet's going to do with that information you gave her?"

"Not sure." Shawn glanced at the back of Juliet's head. "Honestly, nothing. If anything, she'll just keep it to herself." He shrugged. "While I think it's pretty serious, I'm sure to this investigation, it comes off as irrelevant."

Gus snorted. "Seems to me like someone's got a grudge against Lassiter."

Shawn looked at Gus, astonished. Then he smiled. "Buddy, you're coming around."

Gus shrugged. "Well, maybe. But don't let it go to your head."

Juliet returned. "Well, the order came through. Lassiter is going to be released into police custody for now."

"Then what?" Gus asked, curious.

"Given the circumstances, meaning because Carlton is hurt, he will probably be put under house arrest . . . until he's healed enough to be put in a cell." Her expression was sardonic.

"House arrest means he'd have one of those ankle bracelet thingys and not be able to go more than 100 feet from his apartment?"

"More or less," Juliet said. She paused. "I think I will request to the Chief that an officer be present outside his door, because of what you said about his tires."

Gus nudged Shawn. Shawn wasn't sure if this was in a good way or a bad way. But then he pictured some stranger instructing Lassie to stay away from the cops; which was ironic because he was one. He opened his mouth to protest but changed it to a yawn. There wasn't any way he could tell Jules that there may have been someone scary enough to make Lassiter hold his tongue.

Juliet sighed, looking like there was something she wanted to tell Shawn, but not certain if she should. She took a deep breath and plunged. "We were able to ID the John Doe." Her eyes strayed to Gus, which both Shawn and Gus found a little odd. "His name was Max Sweets."

A minor look of recognition passed over Gus's face.

"Apparently, he was pharmaceutical sales rep for North Coast Pharmaceuticals."

Gus's eyes widened and he spoke before he could stop himself. "That's a division of Central Coast. I knew that guy. Sometimes he'd come to the main office, busting chops with some of the other reps." Gus whistled. His brow furrowed. "He seemed like a decent guy, but I didn't know him that well." _What had he been doing that had ended with him getting shot in the neck, maybe by Lassiter?_ Gus wondered.

Juliet frowned and a long line appeared across her forehead. "You worked with the vic?" she asked slowly.

Gus frowned too. This was a strange new development. "Well, yes and no. It was the same company, after all. But I know that Mr. Sweets was only in every few months to do reports, get new samples, stuff like that." He stared at her hard; Shawn was astounded. "I didn't work with this guy every day."

"Okay," Juliet nodded. But then she gave him a sympathetic look. "You know I have to let the Chief know about this. She'll want everyone who came in contact with Max Sweets interviewed."

Gus shrugged. Just procedure. It's not like he had anything to hide anyway.

Shawn pressed his hands together. "Well, Jules, if that's all, Gus and I have to run an errand before we hit the beach."

Juliet frowned. "I said I can't give you a pass to the crime scene."

Shawn shrugged. "Who said were going to the crime scene? I was thinking Gus could practice the fine art of falling off his surfboard while I work on my tan."

"Uh, huh," Juliet replied skeptically. She looked from one to the other, before telling them she had to get back to Lassiter's room.

"So, how are we getting into Lassiter's apartment, Shawn?" Gus whispered on their way to the elevator.

"Well, I hope, for Lassie's sake, that it's still locked." He pressed the Lobby button and the doors closed. "But I did manage to get this," he replied a little guiltily.

Gus's eyes got huge. "Oh, my god. Shawn, please tell me you didn't steal that from a cop." He stared at a small silver key with the initials "C.L." on the tag.

"No, not steal. More like, borrowed."

"I can't believe you. You took that out of Juliet's pocket, didn't you?"

"Maybe." Shawn shrugged. "Look at it this way. It's less riskier than actually picking the lock." The doors opened to the lobby. Gus gasped. "What? This is important."

"No, Shawn, it's Vick," Gus hissed.

Shawn looked up and saw the police Chief headed towards their elevator. She hadn't seen them yet. He focused on her drawn face, how she was letting her guard down now that she didn't have anyone professional expecting things from her. "Come on," Shawn whispered. He stepped out quickly and turned the opposite direction as the lobby. Gus followed on his heels until they were out of sight down a hallway. Vick hadn't noticed them. As she waited for a elevator, Shawn listened to her breathing. The "up" button dinged, and she stepped on. Gone.

"All right," Shawn said. "Let's head out."

* * *

No one was expecting to see her. She cleared everyone out sternly, telling them that she and Detective O'Hara could handle Detective Lassiter's transfer. By the time they were on their way out, Vick was scowling. "It's like a circus, O'Hara," she said. "Disrespectful."

"Yes, ma'am," Juliet agreed softly.

"How is Detective Lassiter?"

Juliet gave her a funny look for a second. Then she said, "The doctors assured me he will be fine out of hospital care. They will be sending along some prescriptions, but otherwise, he's free to go."

Vick nodded. She looked like she wanted to say something else, when two nurses rushed past her to Lassiter's room. She gave Juliet a strained look before entering the room herself.

* * *

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" Lassiter yelled to the violet-black darkness. A small peal of laughter to his left. Another to his right. "Answer me, you coward!" More laughter from all sides.

The darkness was very compact; he was only aware of his own body and self in that space. A rushing from the inkier dark to his right. A solid form, like a football player or a boulder, hitting him, knocking him backwards. Something else solid behind him; tumbling over as he fell into it. Lassiter looked at the ground behind him where he was certain something inanimate would be lying; he ran his hands through the space but there wasn't anything he could put his hands around. He reached out to his right; same.

"Where are you?" he shouted. "Why don't you face me like a man?" Silence. More. "Hey! Answer me!" His heart began to pound; it was a jack hammer in his own ears. _No, how can I hear the answers if my heart is beating so loudly?_

The seams holding his skin together tore, right along his elbow, up to his pinky fingertip. _Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Hisssss._ Blood spurted, then bones poked through. More blood, oozing. His muscles started slipping out. _Oh, god. I need something to stop the blood!_ It was an ugly sight, even for his experienced police eyes. His head was swimming, his heart still roaring. His knees hit the dark space. He pressed his hands against his ears; blood spraying all over his face. _I need to stabilize the wound._

Then a voice, familiar but warbling, spat, _"You will never be rid of us now. We told you what you had to do."_ Lassiter couldn't tell what direction it was coming from. He fought off the panic that was smacking him in the face, clawing his way through the voice that twisted like ribbons in a windstorm. He reached out with the uninjured arm, reaching out, about to clasp around a face that was . . . made of smoke. It was gone.

Lassiter sat up abruptly, not sure if his own cries had been the reason he woke. He winced when he jerked his handcuffed arm too hard. Staring at it, he pulled on it a couple of times, then leaned back against the pillows. His heart was racing too fast. The images of his dreams were fresh; he felt with a coldness in his stomach, that what he had just experienced was the fraction of a memory. Messed up, sure, twisted . . . _twisted_. He wondered what the significance of those ribbons was. And all that blood . . . He tried to get a clearer picture, but there wasn't anything else there. His heart thundered in his ears.

He hadn't realized he'd dozed off until there were people over him, nurses or doctors, all faces blurring together. Was one of them made of smoke? He looked and looked for those ribbons, what colors they were, what direction they were blowing from. He knew he could slow up his heart by collecting each time sliver of memory, putting them away in box for later. He'd need those. All of those pieces.

* * *

Vick had arrived in the middle of this. Her own heart was racing, watching them work on her head detective to get this heart rate down. She wanted to yell out what was the matter with him, but her voice faltered. After three terrifying minutes, everything was fine. Relatively speaking. When the nurses backed off, Vick saw that Carlton was horribly pale. His eyes were closed; she hated that he had to be handcuffed like a criminal. But she was resolved; right now, for all they knew, he _was_ a criminal. She wanted her head detective to be innocent, falsely accused. But the truth was, she just couldn't admit that as is.

One of the nurses was explaining why Lassiter's heart rate may have spiked. Karen wasn't listening; she rarely spaced. She couldn't ever remember seeing her head detective look helpless. The nurses left, and Vick wandered to his bedside. He still didn't open his eyes. His breathing was shallow. Before she could stop herself, her hand was on his cheek, which was clammy. "I'm sorry," she said in a low voice.


	8. Chapter 7: Between Hell and Heaven

**Chapter Seven: I'm Locked in a Room Between Hell and Heaven**

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Vick waited until Lassiter awoke. It took a long while, so it seemed. She wanted to tell him that she'd sent their colleagues away because it just wasn't proper. (Even though she had made the initial decision to send them.) After all, one detective getting arrested should not a circus make. Karen had been appalled to see so many of her subordinates hanging out as if there weren't other crimes to be solved. Plus, she had been humbled when O'Hara told her via cell phone that Lassiter was shocked by the charge. This, alone, didn't prove his innocence, of course.

She had left O'Hara outside, hoping the younger detective had enough foresight to ask one of the many doctors or nurses who had run in here to explain what was going on. _Just a bad dream, ma'am,_ Karen recalled the nurse telling her before squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. A bad dream, humph. No kidding.

Lassiter stirred. His lids opened slowly, taking in each detail of the room. He sighed, partially glad to realize he was still in the hospital room and not confined to some blackened space where anything could come out at him from anywhere.

"Detective," Vick said, standing. She smoothed the front of her gray suit jacket while Carlton searched for his voice.

"Chief." His voice was too dull. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to be the one to tell you that you are being released into police custody."

His lips were tight. "Now?"

"Yes."

"Then what?" He pulled idly at the handcuff.

Vick pursed her lips. "The way things look right now is house arrest . . . until we get all of this sorted out."

Lassiter wanted to laugh. House arrest? Like he could really be safe there? Like no one with say, a key to his place, couldn't get in? "By sorted out, you mean, me all ship-shape for county jail?" he edged.

Vick looked like she wanted to stomp her foot. She swallowed whatever else she was going to say. Lassiter turned his head, and sighed. "I didn't do this. I'm not a cold-blooded killer," he said, exasperated.

"Detective, I'm sorry." He looked at her. "You know I need the evidence that proves that. You will have to surrender your badge and any other guns in your possession."

_I wish you could go on my word,_ he thought. He felt like crying, being asked to give up his badge. Lassiter thought back to their conversation barely a day . . . or was it two? ago, when he was being told to take paid leave, and how hard that was to take. He clinked the handcuff, as if asking if she were ready to go.

"In a few," Vick said. She sat back down. Lassiter watched her. She took a deep breath. "Detective, I want to ask you some things, off the record."

He nodded, though he didn't know if he could answer her questions. Or would answer them.

"Detective, were you straight with me about everything you remembered from the night of your alleged abduction?"

Lassiter turned his head sharply, a pinched expression on his face. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth. Then, "It happened. It wasn't 'alleged'." He moved his sprained wrist. His bruises were still obvious.

"Think through it one more time. Is there anything you may have inadvertently left out?"

Lassiter could see she was giving him a chance to believe him, though she could also be daring him to tell her a different story. He thought about Spencer going to get the glass; should he tell her about it? What about the things he'd confided in Spencer? _No_. He couldn't. He needed to have an ally on the outside. Maybe he could give her a version of the truth that would work just as well.

"I'm not positive, but I think one of them made me drink something after they'd just woken me," Lassiter began quietly. He shook his head slowly. "I remember . . . swallowing some liquid, spitting out the rest." He stole what he hoped was a secretive glance at Vick. Her face was impassible. "After that, everything is the same as what I told you." When she didn't say anything, he reiterated, "I don't know anything that might have happened in the time before I was conscious on the beach. It's completely black."

"All right," Vick finally said. "What do you think it was they gave you?"

Oh, this was good. She seemed to be coming around. If he could get her on his side. . . .

_"I will not talk to police."_

_"Good. And what happens if you talk to police?"_

_"Something bad."_

_"That's right. What happens if you talk to police?"_

_"Something bad."_

Carlton's skin went cold with the memory. He hoped he was keeping it off his face. "I—I don't know what it was, Chief," he stammered, trying to cover. "It didn't have any taste; I don't know why I swallowed it." He flushed, feeling stupid. He raised the sprained arm halfway before letting it drop.

Vick searched Lassiter's face, wondering if it was a strain to remember or if he was trying to pass off bullshit as truth. She hated thinking that about her head detective, but his track record lately hadn't been so hot.

"Carlton, why did you leave the hospital two days ago?" she broke in suddenly, startling him. She gave him a cross look. "And _do not_ feed me another tall tale about sleepwalking, detective."

_Dammit._ The recent memory poked him, then bit. It laughed, and the laugh was familiar. Well, _something bad had_ already happened. And he didn't seem to be getting anywhere with Vick anyway. "Someone was in the room with me that night, after hours."

"What do you mean? A doctor or a nurse?"

"No. It wasn't anyone I recognized—"

Vick was furious. She wanted to jump and yell that she didn't need this crap. She needed the truth.

He took some breaths. "—standing over me. It was an unnerving . When I woke up that morning, I panicked. I just acted without thinking it through."

"How did this _supposed_ person get in to your room?"

Lassiter flinched, feeling betrayed. She was using those words again, "alleged", "supposed". Might have just as well been "imaginary" or "lie". He felt like the biggest idiot for trying to tell her. How could she understand? All he had were disjointed pieces, confused memories, fragments that he wasn't certain were real or just possible hallucinations. Even _he_ was having a hard time believing himself. What if he really was a killer? What if he had imagined some other scenario to make himself feel less guilty?

He made himself focus on what he knew to be real. He had been abducted. He had been missing for 36 hours. He had woken up disoriented at least thirty miles outside of Santa Barbara town limits. He was physically battered up, and his memories were strewn with holes. There had been a man in his hospital room, threatening him. There had been an envelope with a note and two keys in it on his bedside table that morning. And then another note. He was scared, yes, that was very real. And Spencer was helping him. That was real too. Strange as hell, but real. _Godspeed, Spencer, _he thought bitterly.

Vick tried to get him to speak, but he refused, other than to say he would need to call his lawyer.

* * *

Shawn was relived to find that Lassiter's new lock hadn't been picked or broken yet. He slid the key in, and it clicked. "Yahetze, we're in."

"Yeah, yeah, let's get this over with," Gus said, glancing behind them down the hallway as if someone had followed them. "Look, maybe I should wait out here," he started. Shawn grabbed his arm and yanked him inside.

"What the hell are you afraid of?" Shawn chided, heading straight for Lassiter's kitchen.

"I don't know," Gus stalled. He glanced around quickly as if _he_ might see someone hiding behind the furniture.

Shawn returned with two plastic Ziploc bags, and walked the short hallway to Lassiter's bedroom. He was relieved to see the small rounded blue glass there. Using the one bag like a glove, he dropped the glass into the other and zipped it closed. "Okay, can we go now?" Gus asked, appearing in the doorway.

"Dude, what's up with you?"

"Technically, we're breaking and entering, again. And Lassiter was kidnapped from here, Shawn. _Lassiter_."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "So now you believe he was kidnapped?"

"Well, I—" Gus chewed his lip for a second. "Yeah, I do. And I heard what you said about him not being the 'horror movie killer type'."

Shawn snorted. "I believe I said 'cold-blooded killer type', genius." He observed Gus's sweaty palms and twitching fingers. "It's getting to you that Lassie thinks someone was in here with him before he passed out."

Gus shook a little. "It is. Plus, what about those keys Lassiter got? His own keys? It's freaky."

Shawn agreed.

"Why those keys?"

"His apartment and his car. Same as the notes: to show him that they are in control. Apparently he wasn't supposed to go to the police; maybe that means his abductors figured that there may be something he'd remember."

"Can we go?" Gus said, already at the door.

"Yeah, Gus, geez." Shawn cradled the glass in the crook of his elbow as he re-locked the temporary lock. He would have to figure out how to get the key back to Jules without her knowing he'd taken it.

As they buckled themselves into Gus's car, Shawn told him, "I need you to take this to your experts at Central Coast." Gus hesitated. Shawn continued, "You're the only one who can get this tested. It's not like we can take this to the police or anything."

"Why can't we go to the police again?"

Shawn huffed, but understood what Gus meant. "Because Lassie . . . asked me not to." More or less. Gus pulled into traffic. "Do you think Lassie's guilty, Gus?"

"I—I don't know. Maybe." Shawn tsked. "You wanted my opinion, Shawn." He sighed, pulling up behind a line of cars paused at a red light.

"This is crazy. I know someone is setting him up, but I don't know why. And now you believe he was kidnapped, but you're not convinced he isn't a killer."

"It's just— I can't figure out why someone would kill Max Sweets. He wasn't an overachiever or an underachiever. He was an average sales rep, kind of bland but usually friendly." The light turned green. "I didn't know him that well, what I told Juliet. But to die such a horrible death?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "And you really, really, _really_ believe that Lassiter would—?"

"He's been acting funny lately. What if there's a side to him that we don't know?"

Shawn bit back a laugh. Lassiter was pretty much "what-you-see-is-what-you-get", well, that was his usual self. "He's just scared, Gus. Can't you put yourself in his shoes? If something traumatic happened to you and you felt like you couldn't trust anyone but . . . Buzz McNab to help you?"

"Buzz McNab? Really?"

"Bad example?"

"Uh, huh."

"Well, can you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yes. Sorry." Gus thought about it. "But Shawn, if Lassiter was a witness to Mr. Sweet's murder, why didn't the real killer shoot him too? Why let him go?"

"Huh. Good question. Maybe they didn't let him go. Maybe he escaped."

"So they framed him for the murder . . . to keep him quiet?" Gus wondered.

"But he can't remember anything, so it's harder for him to contest. And no one seems to believe him lately." _Hmm. How could they get Lassie to remember?_ He looked out the window and his eye caught a white sign with purple lettering propped up outside a New Age gift/ supply shop. An idea popped into his head. "Gus, let me off here." Shawn motioned for him to pull over.

"What? Here? Why?"

"There's someone I want to talk to. Can you handle dropping of the glass off at Central Coast? They might be less suspicious if I'm not there, anyway." Gus stared at Shawn before deciding not to ask for details. "I'll meet you at the office in an hour, okay? I want to shower before we hit the beach, which is probably silly." Shawn got out of the car and went towards the New Age shop, hoping that someone might be actually qualified to help.

* * *

Brought into the station without restraints, Lassiter was led by Juliet to an interrogation room. She had informed him she would not be doing the questioning herself, but that her new temporary partner, Detective Adam Samuelson would. She and Vick would be supervising and Juliet was only to go in if necessary.

Lassiter had briefed his lawyer, Jeremy Oswley, over the phone of his situation and the charges against him. He'd left out any confusing, unhelpful details. His lawyer said he'd be on his way and instructed Lassiter to go ahead and answer basic, non self-incriminating questions.

By the time his lawyer arrived, Lassiter had been questioned five or six times about the same things. The alleged kidnapping. The beach. His recent state of mind, which seemed unpredictable. His alleged memory loss.

"Did you know the victim, Max Sweets?"

"No."

"How did you know Max Sweets?"

"I didn't know him."

"Why did you kill Max Sweets?"

This was only the second time Carlton had ever heard this name. The first had been when Juliet placed him under arrest for the man's murder. "I didn't kill him!" Lassiter burst out. "I told you what I remember!"

"So, is true you wearing a blood soaked t-shirt when you were found at Leadbetter Beach?" Adam Samuelson asked for the fourth time.

"Yes. When I became aware of my surroundings, I checked myself over for wounds. I found myself in that t-shirt, as well as those jeans. Those are not my clothes."

"They are not your clothes? Whose clothes are they?"

"I don't know. I know I didn't go to sleep in those clothes the night my apartment was broken into."

"But you knew the t-shirt was covered with blood."

"Yes. But I didn't know if it was my blood or . . . someone else's." _Goddammit, where is my lawyer? _

"Did you check yourself for any wounds?"

"I did. Other than bruises and a shallow cut on my stomach, I had no great wound."

"Nothing that could have caused that much blood."

"No."

Lassiter stared past Samuelson at the mirror, where he knew Vick and O'Hara waited. "But those clothes don't belong to me. I had no idea whose blood that was. I couldn't remember anything when I woke up. All I focused on was finding civilization and a phone."

"You stepped on a large piece of glass and tore up your foot pretty badly."

"Yes, I did."

"And you wrapped the wound with part of the t-shirt. Why not just toss the rest of the shirt away?"

Lassiter ran a hand through his hair, grateful that he was not handcuffed to the chair. "I didn't know whose blood it was. I figured we—" He faltered, dropping his eyes. He continued with a harsh tone. "I mean, _the police _would need it to identify whomever the blood belonged to."

"Or, as the murderer, you wanted to keep it as a souvenir."

"I didn't murder anyone."

"Or maybe you did but you conveniently can't remember," Samuelson retorted sourly.

Lassiter slammed his palm on the table. "NO. I didn't even know the victim. Why would I kill a stranger out of the blue?"

"Greed? Sheer pleasure of the kill?"

Lassiter's eyes shone. He hated this more than there were words to describe it. "I. Am. Not. A. Murderer. I didn't kill anyone."

"And if you did, you just can't remember?"

Lassiter shook, making a fist to contain his rage and helplessness.

"Have you considered this a possibility, Lassiter? That you killed Max Sweets but you just can't recall it?" Lassiter clenched his teeth. "Answer the question."

"No. Yes. I don't know." He was shaking his head hard. An inky image slid down the inside of his skull. He squeezed his eyes tight, trying to make it out, an abstract colorless blob. Inside his head he stretched his fingers towards it; it wiggled. He jerked his hand back, surprised to find some matter on his fingers. As he brought his hand closer to his eyes, the color changed to from opaque to vermillon, with bits of hard white shards mixed into the mush.

The scene Jeremy Oswley had arrived to was his client slumped over the table in the interrogation room. He witnessed Samuelson standing over Lassiter, calling his name before motioning towards the mirror that he needed assistance. Juliet rushed in but Oswley stopped Vick to ream her out. She took it with a mildly stern look and crossed arms.

"How dare you take my client from the hospital when he is obviously unwell," he began. "For all I know, my client could be suffering duress," Oswley stated firmly, drawing a line in the air with his pressed palms.

Vick put her hands on her hips. "You cannot get an arrest overturned on the grounds that you _think_ your client is being 'mistreated' because of his physical and emotional state. And you had better _not_ be suggesting we are implementing coercion—"

"But aren't you? Questioning him while he is still on meds due to his sprained wrist, his other sustained injuries?"

"While I agree your client should submit to a psychological evaluation, this is a murder investigation, unfortunately against one of my own detectives. You cannot except me to offer special treatment because of that," Vick countered.

"So, let me get this straight. It been five days since my client was found wandering battered and confused around Main St. near Leadbetter Beach, barely coherent—"

"Yet able to recall his own name," Vick broke in.

"Regardless, Chief Vick, he told me he has no relocation of any crimes committed by his hand. How long are you going to make him sit in there, repeating the same details you've already heard thirty times? If he doesn't remember, are you planning to force him to confess, in spite of his innocence?"

"_Alleged_ innocence, Mr. Oswley." Her whole face was a frown.

"Haven't you bothered to look into the reasons behind his memory loss or have you just been too busy gathering evidence against your own Head Detective to crucify him?"

Angry steam was practically rolling from the top of Vick's head. "This is a murder investigation, Mr. Oswley, in case you haven't noticed," she repeated. "Your client, my detective, is under arrest for shooting a man in the throat. His gun was found at the scene. The bullet matches his gun. He was found wearing a bloody t-shirt covered with the victim's blood. You see how serious this is? My detectives cannot simply ask nicely if he'd like to confess. Don't you think I want to find the right killer?" Vick's hand flew to her mouth. She turned away from Oswley as she watched O'Hara and Samuelson work on bringing Lassiter around.

"Lassiter?! Lassiter?!" Carlton's head shot up when he realized someone was standing over him, gripping his shoulder, hard.

"That looks pretty honest to god scary and real to me, Chief Vick," Oswley told her seriously. Lassiter did look . . . out of it. So pale.

She relented, all of her earlier fury gone. "Maybe he _isn't_ up for this right now. I'll give the order to release him into house arrest police custody, until he's fit." She blew out a long breath. It was obvious— or was it?— that she should have seen that there was something else wrong with her Head Detective.

"It looks a little like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Oswley gave her a sideways look. "But then you would have to admit that Lassiter experienced a traumatic enough stress in the past few days."

She frowned at the man. _God, I really hate lawyers_. "You can go in and tell him what's going on. But he's still a murder suspect, and still under arrest, Mr. Oswley." She went down the hall to get the right paperwork.

* * *

After Jeremy Oswley had explained the situation to Lassiter, the house arrest cuff had been secured around his ankle. Lassiter waited in the hallway, seated on a bench by his lawyer and Juliet, who promised she would be back to check on him before he was taken to his apartment. He sat there stunned, unable to collect any of his thoughts. What had just happened? He felt he was more a passive observer than an active participant.

For a while he was alone, just waiting. Then, short footsteps, clicks of high heels on tile. He looked up. A girl, no, a woman, stood three feet from him, smiling a China doll smile. Petite, slender with both a young and a worldly air about her. He guessed her age as early to mid twenties. She had an olive complexion, a heart-shaped face, mischievous dark brown eyes, dark chocolate silk for hair. He realized she was no more than five feet tall to his 6'1".

_Who is she?_ he wondered. He couldn't think of a reason why she would be here and seemingly interested in him. She danced right up to him then, a dark smile all over her face. She giggled; he knew that sound. He did. And then she blew him a kiss, very close to his own lips.

Though still seated, Lassiter jumped back, gasping, a hand going to his mouth. She smiled with her whole body, shook out some stray hair, which curled on her slender fingers, and turned from him, just as other O'Hara returned with Samuelson and Vick. He wanted to call out her name, go after her, something . . . but he was being led away.

* * *

Lassiter was brought to this apartment in the back of a squad car. Vick had already sent officers to go in and retrieve Lassiter's badge and search for any other guns the arrested detective might have hidden, so there were no police there when he was brought home. Samuelson was driving and the electronics specialist was in the passenger seat, ready to hook up the box ensuring Lassiter could not go more than 100 yards from it. The only thing Lassiter thought about on the way there was the mysterious woman who'd had such a strange effect on him. He got creeper feelings each time he thought of the encounter. He closed his eyes, trying to reach back for anything. A thin thread of light appeared; he followed it. He was inside the moment then, rather than acting as a witness to an event that may not involve him.

_A foreign tongue in his mouth, lips on his, deep kiss. "What are you doing?" a voice admonished. Round dark brown eyes, black hair curled like ribbons, olive skin, a heart-shaped face. A closed mouth smile. "Ah, let me have some fun with him, won't you?" Soft kiss. Her fingers stroking his face, her fingers in his hair. _

Lassiter's eyes snapped open._ Was that real? Had that really happened?_ He ran his left hand over his mouth, and thought about his reaction to the woman in the precinct again.

Samuelson had no trouble getting Lassiter to cooperate. Lassiter was acting like a zombie with staring eyes that seemed to see something other than what was right in front of him. Samuelson's grip on Lassiter's left arm was standard, though he didn't expect Lassiter would bolt. When they got to Lassiter's front door, they found a locksmith replacing the temporary lock. Lassiter didn't seem to see the man. Samuelson waved his passenger to go in ahead of them, so he could begin his work on setting up and activating the box. "Did Chief Vick call for you?" Samuelson asked the worker, who was kneeling down with a drill in front of the open door.

The worker stood up, revealing a height of nearly six feet. He had a blue denim cap pulled to his thick bottle glasses. He reached for work order in his equipment bag and scanned it. "No, sir, a Carton Lessier called our company." The man had a thick accent. "Es that you, sir?"

"No, I'm Detective Adam Samuelson, Santa Barbara PD." Samuelson stole a glance at Lassiter, who was still in zombie-like mode. He was looking at the wall in front of him as if watching a movie that only he could see.

"Mester Lessier left word with my boss to get started even if he waz not at home." The worker held out the official looking work order to Samuelson, who reached to take it, but then waved it away. Samuelson thought of asking Lassiter when he'd called a locksmith, but he suspected he wasn't going to get an answer.

"Fine, fine," Samuelson said. "We'll let you get back to work." He stepped through the door, guiding his prisoner, who was still distant. It was nothing like what had happened in the interrogation room, but it was still quite eerie. Samuelson didn't know the Head Detective well, because he was usually assigned to thefts or con jobs, but Lassiter did have the reputation of being a really good cop and a really levelheaded man. He shook his head slowly, not knowing what to think. He released Lassiter's arm. The specialist had set the box on the end table in the living room where Lassiter kept his land line. He explained to Samuelson that there shouldn't be any interference with the phone. "I'll wait in the hallway if you need me," he told Samuelson. The detective nodded.

The locksmith was packing his tools. He rummaged around the bag for a piece of paper, a receipt, scrawled a couple things on it and then brought it up to Lassiter, who stood next to his coffee table unmoving. "Mester Lessier?" the worker asked him. Still no movement. "I finish with the lock. All good az new." The worker gestured with a worn gray gloved hand. "Just need signature."

"Is it paid for already?" Samuelson asked, raising an eyebrow.

The man pointed to a spot on the receipt. "Creedit card payment, sir. Over the phone."

"Oh," Samuelson said. Lassiter still hadn't moved. "Look, is it okay if I sign?" He wasn't sure how to explain Lassiter's current state to the man.

The worker looked at Lassiter. "Es he sick?"

"Yeah, he just got out of the hospital today. The meds they gave him were a little too—"

The worker winked. "Good? Strong?" He handed over the paper and Samuelson initialed it. He tore off a bottom pink carbon copy and gave it to Samuelson. "Please tell Mester Lessier lock es good az new." The man pointed to a number at the bottom of the receipt. "Tell him to call this number if anything ez wrong. I leave keys right here." He dropped two shiny keys on Lassiter's coffee table. "Thank you. Have good day."

"Thanks," Samuelson said, watching the worker close the door on the way out. Samuelson set the receipt on top of the stack of gun interest magazines and set down the plastic bag they had given Lassiter at the hospital, with checkout and insurance forms, samples and the already filled prescriptions, on Lassiter's armchair. Then he clapped his hands in Lassiter's face until Lassiter took a couple steps back, looked at Samuelson confusedly. He recognized suddenly that he was in his apartment. "Great, back in the land of the living," Samuelson told him. "Can you stay here so I can tell you what I need to?"

Lassiter frowned. "Get on with it."

Samuelson told Lassiter again what being under house arrest meant, no more than 100 yards away from the little box near the phone. Prescriptions were in this bag here. He would be contacted in the next 24-48 hours for a psychological evaluation, requested both by Vick and his lawyer, Jeremy Oswley. He informed him that Vick had already sent officers for his badge and guns, and that the locksmith Lassiter had called had just replaced the lock, the receipt was here and the new keys were there.

"Locksmith?" Lassiter repeated. He felt something black and heavy in his mouth, and found he couldn't say anything else. He didn't recall calling a locksmith.

Samuelson raised an eyebrow to Lassiter's question but didn't push it. Business settled, he headed for the door. The new lock clicked; he sank onto the couch. He took some deep breaths and stared into the silence before reaching for the keys. Air bunched in his throat, he turned them over and over. They were identical, two keys for the same lock, but they were too familiar. If that was a new lock, then how could they be? He snatched the pink carbon copy, scanning the handwriting. That was not familiar at all, but Lassiter dug into his pants pocket for the note Shawn had found in his car. Lassiter compared the handwriting . . . not a match. He sighed, putting both down on the coffee table. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his left hand while he tried to think. His eyes strayed to the keys, then to the stack of gun interest magazines.

"What the f—" Lassiter snatched a 4x6 black and white photograph sitting on top of the magazines. As he stared at it, his hand flew to his mouth. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

It was Spencer from the side, bent over his computer desk at the Psych office, asleep. The photographer couldn't have been standing more than two feet away. At the bottom of the picture was a small digital date stamp: 08/08/2009. August 8th. It had been taken yesterday.


	9. Chapter 8: I've Walked Down Long Roads

**Chapter Eight: I've Walked Down Long Roads That Seem To Have No End At All**

Author's Note: For all intensive purposes in this story, Leadbetter Hill is a hamlet thirty miles outside of Santa Barbara, CA. Leadbetter Beach is Leadbetter Hill's only beach and is a big hang-out for Santa Barbara Community College (SBCC) students, (this part is based in fact). Leadbetter Hill has a "small town" police force, which turns its bigger cases over the SBPD, and has no hospital, the closest being thirty miles away in Santa Barbara. It also has one main newspaper, not counting the SBCC newspaper (which may or may not make any sort of appearance in the story.) The _Santa Barbara Daily_ is a credible newspaper and not a gossip rag.

Disclaimer: I do not own lyrics to Outkast's _So Fresh, So Clean_. Or Barq's Root Beer. Or Ouija Boards.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Lassiter continued to stare at the photograph with the knot in his stomach growing. Getting this was worse than the last note, which had chilled him to the core. He felt daggers of guilt. What was he getting Spencer into by confiding in him? Maybe he shouldn't let the kid help him anymore. Spencer hadn't mentioned anything about being hurt or threatened, so Lassiter suspected Shawn didn't know that the picture had been taken. It was just another reminder to scare him further and to let him know that they— whomever _they_ were— were still in control. Lassiter wondered who would be more freaked out by this picture, Spencer or Guster? He was torn between letting them know about it or keeping it to himself.

_"Let me have some fun with him, won't you?" _The young woman's voice, the one who had been at the station . . . though she hadn't spoken to him there. He touched his mouth; a shudder got through. He looked back into the dark of his mind but he couldn't see anything else.

* * *

Gus arrived at the office a half an hour before a newly showered and dressed Shawn pulled up on his motorcycle. Gus decided to do some research. He pulled up all recent news stories about the murder of Mr. Sweets, stats about Leadbetter Beach, and even found a couple about Lassiter being found there on August 2.

_Leadbetter Hill Ledger_

August 2, 2009

"Missing Head Detective Found"; Hamlet of Leadbetter Hill, CA

_"Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department was found today around 2pm on the Leadbetter Beach's main business drag. Det. Lassiter had been reported missing two days prior by Chief of Police, Karen Vick. The detective was discovered by SBCC students, with whom Lassiter tried to communicate with before fainting. The detective was noted to be disheveled and battered about the face, and had sustained a deep cut to the foot, which had smeared a trail of blood up a sidewalk."_ Gus made a sour face, then kept reading._ "Foul play is suspected but at this time the investigation is ongoing. Says Vick, 'We are relived to have our Head Detective home and wish to extend our gratitude to the Leadbetter Police and Paramedics for their quick response.'" _

_Leadbetter Hill Ledger_

August 5, 2009

"Body Discovered in Leadbetter Beach Pavilion"; Hamlet of Leadbetter Hill, CA

_"It was a gruesome sight for the local Leadbetter police officers to come upon today as an anonymous tip led to the discovery of the body of a man, an apparent victim of murder. The man, a John Doe, is believed to be the victim of a mugging gone wrong. Shot in the neck, the man's wallet and any other forms of ID were missing. A revolver was discovered on scene; police are looking for its owner and potential suspect in the shooting death."_

_Santa Barbara Daily _

August 6, 2009

"Identity of Alleged Murder Victim Released"; Santa Barbara, CA

_"The body of the John Doe discovered in a Leadbetter Beach pavilion nearly 24 hours ago has been identified. The victim was Mr. Max Sweets, of Mission Canyon. Sweets' employer was North Coast Pharmaceuticals, a division of Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, whose headquarters are here in town. As reported by his supervisor, Sweets was on a business trip to attend a conference at Central Coast later this week, but had failed to check in." _Gus's brow furrowed._ "The victim's family has been notified but denied comment for this article."_

_Huh,_ Gus thought. There were other similar articles which he skimmed. He was reading one about Lassiter's arrest when Shawn got in. Gus wondered which bonehead down there at SBPD had leaked this to the press.

_Santa Barbara Daily_

August 7, 2009

"Missing Detective Suspected Killer"; Santa Barbara, CA

_"In a truly strange twist of events, formerly missing Head Detective Carlton Lassiter has been placed under arrest as the main suspect in the alleged murder of Mr. Max Sweets. Sweets' body was discovered in a Leadbetter Beach pavilion on August 5. Lassiter, at the time of his arrest, was in the hospital, recovering from injuries of unknown cause."_

"Hey, dude, I'm so fresh and so clean," Shawn said.

Gus looked up and couldn't help his smile. "So fresh and so clean, clean?"

"Ain't nobody dope as me, I'm dressed so fresh so clean."

"So fresh and so clean, clean," Gus sang. Shawn looked over his shoulder, scanning the article.

"Is that about Lassie? What idiot leaked that to the press?"

"That's exactly what I said. But yeah. I've been reading some news reports about Lassiter being found, and the murder." He summed up the main articles for before telling Shawn he thought they should hold off going to Leadbetter Beach.

"Why? I just got clean so I could get all dirty."

"Shawn, I think we should talk to Lassiter first. Maybe he can give us some clues before we go traipsing around there not knowing what we're looking for."

Shawn thought about it and agreed. He checked the time. It was around 4pm. "All right. Let me call Jules and see how Lassie's interrogation's going."

Juliet picked up on the third ring. "What is it, Shawn?" She sounded tired. Shawn wondered if she had to question Lassiter herself.

"I wanted know how Lassie's holding up under the heat lamps, the bright lights and the big city."

"Huh?" Then Juliet got it. "Oh, Shawn, Carlton's not here. Detective Samuelson, my new temporary partner, took him to his apartment about an hour ago."

"What? Why?"

"He slumped over when Samuelson was questioning him, and that was the exact moment his lawyer showed up. His lawyer threw a fit and accused Vick of coercion."

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yes. It took a solid ten minutes to get Carlton to come around." She sounded breathless, recalling it. "It was pretty scary, like he was in dead sleep. He wasn't responding to anything."

"So Vick admitted to coercion?"

Gus raised an eyebrow and mouthed, "What?" Shawn shrugged and shook his head.

"No," Juliet almost laughed. "She just admitted that she had requested Carlton being released from the hospital too soon and that he perhaps isn't mentally up to answering those questions yet." Shawn offered a low whistle, but Juliet continued before he could ask her to elaborate. "All that means is that if he was completely fine, he wouldn't be passing out when interrogated. Sure, it can be a rigorous process, but that was not a normal response." She sighed. "And certainly one I would never have expected from Carlton."

"So he's back at his apartment? Why not the hospital?"

"His doctor did discharge him, so it didn't make much sense to send him back there. He's under house arrest now. Yes, with the ankle cuff. He's pretty much confined to his apartment. Oh!"

"What?"

"I just remembered what you told me about Carlton's car. I have to let Karen know."

"Okay. Thanks, Jules. Bye."

"All right, sum up that conversation for me," Gus said. " 'Coercion'? Really?"

Shawn nodded. "That's what I said." He related what Juliet had told him.

"So Lassiter's at home? Maybe we should go over there now." His stomach growled. "Maybe after dinner. Chinese?"

Shawn smiled. "I've got a better idea." They locked the office and climbed into Gus's car.

"What were you doing in that New Age store, Shawn?" Gus asked, on the way. "Buying incense? A Ouija board?"

"No. I went to talk to a hypnotist."

Gus's eyes widened. "What for?"

"I know it sounds hinky, but I thought maybe there was someone who could help Lassie get his memory back."

Gus gave a dubious look. Shawn shrugged. "I know, it was a long shot."

"Did you talk to anyone credible or were they just space cases?"

Shawn grinned. "I talked to this one woman who may have been credible . . . but most of the conversation was dedicated to 'past life' regressions. Plus, she was really trying to get me to buy some books on mediation." He shrugged again. "Maybe we can try our own version of hypnosis."

"Psych style?"

"Exactly. It's all about being relaxed, going back into your own memory, with trigger words and images and stuff. I think the trickiest part will be getting Lassie to relax."

* * *

Lassiter thought of the new keys the locksmith had given him. He needed to check something. He searched for the white envelope and found it on his night stand. The round blue glass was gone; he hoped that Spencer had been the one to take it. The copied keys and the first note were still inside. Lassiter sank to his bed, dumping out the keys, then he put them side by side next to keys the locksmith had left. Only one of the keys had an obvious difference: it belonged to his car. He swept it in back into the envelope, and got his key ring from his dresser, frowning that his badge was no longer in the pile. Lassiter quickly found his apartment key . . . and it was identical to the three other keys on his bed. _Son of a bitch. _The locksmith, whomever he had been, had replaced the temporary lock with his old lock . . . the one where these keys fit. So whomever _they_ were still had any time access to him. He cursed, then again, again, and swiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

He was suddenly aware he hadn't taken a proper shower or changed his clothes in days. Carlton stood up abruptly. He got out clean boxers, a _Cops_ t-shirt and pair of SBPD sweatpants that he sometimes wore to the gym. He was glad that ankle cuff was waterproof; he'd have to wrap the brace with plastic or a towel. Carlton went to the bathroom, peeled off his clothes and stood under the hot water stream for a long time. The water was hot enough to turn his skin red, but it didn't bother him. He guessed about half an hour had passed when he turned off the water, toweling off his skin and hair. He went back to his room and put on the clean clothes. The keys were on the bed where he'd left them. He pushed the three keys into the envelope, remembering that Samuelson had mentioned some customer service number on the receipt.

He went to the front room, grabbed the carbon copy and studied it for a moment. At the top the company's name was typed in capital block letters: BERNISE LOCKSMITH CO. Under it was a tag line: "No lock we can't crack, no key we can't copy." Bernise. A vagueness, like an ache, and then the unexpectedness of an electrical shock. Lassiter's palms began to sweat.

_"Detective, you will close your eyes and count to one hundred." A hard squeeze to his throat followed by a staggering pain to his wrist. _His mysterious visitor to the hospital the night before he found the white envelope on the bedside table. _"Oh, you don't remember me," the man with the leathery face, the brown mustache, the curled scar, said in a low voice. "That is good, very good." _Lassiter made himself focus, though his heart raced with the same fear he'd felt that night. _The man continued, "You were told specifically not to talk to the police, Detective. Mr. Bernise will be most displeased by your insubordination." _

_Mr. Bernise. _How brazen. Lassiter wiped his sweaty hands on his gym pants. He _knew_ he hadn't called a locksmith. His mouth went bone dry, but he grabbed his land line, and dialed. He had no idea what he'd say if anyone answered. He heard the stranger's voice in his head hiss, _"Very bad."_ His sprained wrist twinged and he pulled it in close to his chest protectively while holding the phone to his ear. The phone rang and rang, five times, ten, fifteen, twenty before an "out of order" sound came onto the line and prerecorded voice said, "I'm sorry. The number you are trying to reach is out of service or has been disconnected. Please hang up and try your call again."

"No," Lassiter stated. "No." He stayed on the line, listening to the recording three times before there was a loud knock on his door. He chided himself for jumping.

"Lassie? Lassie, are you in there? It's Shawn and Gus," Shawn called through the door. Sighing hard, Lassiter clicked the "off" button and replaced the phone to its cradle. He scrambled to hide the photograph, turning it face down and setting the receipt half over it.

He strode to the door and opened it. Shawn and Gus stood there with Chinese take-out containers in their arms. Lassiter eyed the food, suddenly hungry. He backed away from the door, letting the duo in.

"I see you got a new lock," Gus observed.

Lassiter swallowed hard but managed to nod. His stomach growled.

"The spirits told me you'd be hungry," Shawn told him with a smile. "After all, hospital food is just cardboard anyway." Lassiter nodded distractedly. He couldn't remember the last time he eaten anything that wasn't given through an IV or served to him on a Styrofoam plate.

"How's the wrist?" Gus asked. Shawn was pleased that his friend was really trying.

"It's— guess I'm still feeling the meds, because it's not killing me right now." Though at that moment he got a twinge under the brace. His voice was faint and he touched his throat before walking to his kitchen for a glass of water. His hands shook a little as he stood at the sink, waiting for the glass the fill.

Shawn was busy opening all the containers— they carried six each— on Lassiter's kitchen island. He watched glanced at some papers on the coffee table, and zeroed in on them. A pink piece of paper that looked like a receipt, maybe for the new lock? His eyes highlighted _Bernise Locksmith Co._ Then the tag line. Shawn scrunched his eyebrows. That seemed like an odd advertisement to bring in customers. He scanned the rest quickly before his eyes went to something white and blank underneath it. Lassiter drank the water at the sink and then refilled the glass. Shawn turned to watch him. Lassiter's body language was too rigid. Something had happened. Lassiter went to his arm chair where Samuelson had left the meds, and rummaged through until he found the most basic one, which he hoped was only a couple of half steps from aspirin. He fished out two and swallowed them with a big gulp of water. Then he went back to the couch and stuck the receipt and the photograph inside the magazine on top of the stack. He had no idea if he would be telling Spencer about either, so it was best if the kid didn't get a good look at them, especially the picture.

Shawn bit his tongue because he was dying to ask Lassie about what Jules had said. He noticed Lassiter's hand shaking before the detective curled his fingers into a loose fist at his side. Lassiter sat on the couch, opened a drawer in the table and set out a coaster for his water glass. Okay then, first things first, get Lassiter fed. Shawn laughed to himself while searching for plates and silverware. He was sure Lassiter was still capable of feeding himself . . . but he guessed that eating was the last thing on Lassiter's mind. He sighed and began to spoon heaps of everything onto a plate: fried rice, egg rolls, sweet and sour pork, orange chicken, beef lo mein, steamed vegetables, dumplings. He dropped a fork and knife on top of the food mountain and took it Lassiter, who looked up immediately. Shawn set the plate on the coffee table. "Eat up. You're going to need your strength."

Lassiter stared wonderingly at the plate. "That's all for me?" Shawn went off to make his own plate. He and Gus sat on stools at the island while Lassiter stuck a huge forkful of rice and chicken and egg and veggies into his mouth.

They all ate in silence for a few minutes before Shawn informed Lassiter that he and Gus had found the glass and that Gus had taken it to someone he trusted at Central Coast who would be discreet. "We didn't know where else to take it," Shawn told him.

"It would be nice if we could trust Juliet," Gus began, but stopped when he saw both of their faces. He sighed, resigned. "But we can't."

"She's just doing her job," Lassiter said darkly. "Besides, I'm a murder suspect."

"You got anything to drink around here, Lassie?" Shawn asked. "Besides tap water?"

"Maybe. Check the fridge. I think an age passed since I went to the grocery store."

Shawn got up and opened the fridge. He was assaulted by the sour smell of milk going bad. Scrunching up his nose, he got it out and dumped it in the sink. Some of it, both liquid and chunks, splashed on the dishes that were still unwashed. He left the empty carton on the counter and went back to explore. Lassiter had a few serious looking magnets, a couple of miniature guns, an SBPD shield, one commemorating his many years as a Civil War reenactor, and other basic black squares. The magnets were just there, not holding anything to the fridge. The sweep took a half second. Shawn found a six-pack of Barq's Root Beer hiding on the second shelf. He pulled it out and took one for himself before handing the five-pack to Gus. Gus took one and set the rest on a stool next to him.

"Lassie, you have cool soda," Shawn commented, taking a sip.

Lassiter stared at root beer, wondering where he got it. Then he remembered. "I confiscated it off some kids who stole it and some snacks from a 7-11. They were in an evidence locker for two weeks before someone broke in and ate the snacks."

Gus laughed with a mouthful of food. "So, what, did you take this for safe keeping?"

Shawn joined in laughing. It was suddenly hilarious to picture hungry cops or interns "breaking in" to eat chips and candy that were supposed to evidence against a couple of thirteen year-old petty thieves. Lassiter didn't answer Gus, which only made the pair laugh harder.

Lassiter ate his pile of food in serious silence. Eventually Shawn and Gus stopped laughing so they could eat.

"We wanted to ask you about the beach where they found you," Shawn began. He told Lassiter they wanted to head out and there and look for clues of some kind. Gus added that they probably wouldn't be able to get near the crime scene.

Lassiter considered not telling them anything, but he decided he didn't want them wandering around there for hours wasting their time. "I'm not sure what I remember can help in any way," he said. He recounted the way he woke up there, walking, told them he threw up a few times, passed out a few times, and then eventually made it into a main area with people. "Just lots of sand, haziness." He paused, trying remember the mindset of that day. "I think I was coming off the effects of some intense drug," he speculated. "It was as if I were really far away, not in my own body." Shawn looked at Lassiter's plate, which seemed almost untouched.

"Dude, are you going to eat that or what?" Shawn said half-jokingly, taking a big bite of egg roll. Lassiter ate a little more, even though it was starting to taste like sawdust.

"Okay, so maybe we shouldn't go there," Gus said. "If we're barred from the crime scene, then—" Shawn nodded in agreement.

"Lassie, how are you getting groceries? Your personal shopper?" Shawn quipped.

Lassiter sneered, then looked at his plate. "I don't really need to eat," he mused, before chewing another mouthful of rice.

"We'll figure something out," Shawn said. "As long as you have a list and cash. By the way, you're out of milk."

After they were done, Shawn stuck the leftovers in the fridge. Lassiter went to the sink and ran soap and water over the dishes. It was around 6:30pm and the overcast sky was growing dark a little early for a summer night. A mild breeze picked up, warm and faintly scented with vanilla orchid, batting the leaves on the trees together. Lassiter's screened front window, the one which faced the on-street parking, was open halfway. The beige curtains swayed.

Gus and Shawn took turns in the bathroom. Lassiter went to chair, where he'd left the pills and scanned all the bottles. He wasn't sure which one was for what pain; there were three different bottles. He'd just taken two of one of them about an hour ago; so he wasn't sure if he should take any more. He thought about the statement he'd made earlier about feeling under the influence of drugs when he woke up on the beach, and sighed. He shoved all the bottles back into the bag and dropped it on the table.

A noise drew him to the window. A word or a laugh, or the scrape of shoes on the pavement.

Lassiter looked out the front window of his apartment, which had a nice view of palm trees lining the street. He pulled the curtains back, staring with disbelief. A slender young woman, confident and delicate like a doll was propped up against a building across the street. Her head was tilted to one side, but if she glanced up, she could see him. He gasped. Her dark chocolate hair curled in the wind, twisting up in the sudden breeze against her olive complexion. Lassiter froze.

"What's up?" Shawn demanded, going to the window. He noticed right away how tense Lassiter's frame had become, statuesque but still managing to give off waves of energy. "What is it?" Shawn stepped around the taller man, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was seeing.

The young woman had detached herself from the wall as if knowing she'd been spotted, and had turned her back to them, walking away towards a canopy of emerald green trees. Her dark hair continued to twist at the current's mercy, but she made no attempt to brush it back. She seemed content enough to let it be. "Do you know her?" Shawn asked, watching the beautiful woman go.

Lassiter was shot with an image of this woman, close up, at the Santa Barbara Police Station. The one in the memory, kissing him. _How did he know her?_

"Do you know her?" Shawn repeated, grabbing Lassiter's shoulder and shaking it.

Lassiter blinked. She was almost gone. "Y-yes. I know"— and then a name on his tongue, slick and thick— "Notte."

"Notte?" Shawn repeated. "Wait here." He rushed to the front door, down the hallway and out the apartment's lobby door. For such a small woman, her strides seemed to take her from shadow to shadow. She was only swirling hair in the onset night. "Wait!" he called out. Just hair, walking away. He ran to catch up with her, having no idea what he would say if he caught up to her. _Uh, my friend thinks you look familiar, do you know him?_ That sounded ridiculous.

Lassiter and Gus watched Shawn's back disappear into the shadows. "How do you know her?" Gus asked. Lassiter's blue eyes were twinkling, but in an eerie way.

"Not sure," the suspended detective said. "But I remember her kissing me." His cheeks colored.

Gus's lip curled a little. "What, is she some old girlfriend or something?"

Lassiter shook his head. "She was at the police station earlier today. She came right up to me like she knew me." He tried to piece the memories together, what he knew as being true. He sighed loudly. "I'm sorry. I know I just sound too cryptic to make any real sense." He wandered from the window and plopped down in an arm chair, wiping his hand across his face. "You know what it's like? Trying to remember a word that you know you know."

Gus stared at Lassiter, who seemed more and more like a broken man. "Hey, man, it may be cryptic but at least it's progress." Lassiter looked up with some small gleam of hope in his eyes. "It's better than not remembering anything, right?"

"I'm not certain about that, actually," Lassiter said quietly. Gus seemed puzzled. "It's just . . . maybe it's too dangerous that I'm remembering. I get memories at the most inopportune moments, I keep spacing out—"

"Back up a second. For whom is too dangerous? You? Do you think that you . . . " Gus's sentence trailed off, but it seemed obvious by his tone what he was implying.

For a few seconds, Lassiter looked angry, but he let it go with an air of defeat. "I honestly don't know what could drive me to murder, Guster. I know I can't remember, but I just feel in my gut that I didn't kill that guy."

"Then is it dangerous for you in another way?"

Lassiter brushed it off. "Look, do you think you can get Spencer to back off? He'd listen to you, wouldn't he?"

Gus gave a deep frown. "Why?"

"I just— I don't want anyone to get hurt because they were trying to help me."

"Lassiter, Shawn just went chasing some mystery woman— Do you think that she's involved with your disappearance somehow?" Gus asked suddenly.

_Soft kiss. Her fingers stroking his face, her fingers in his hair. _Lassiter twisted in his chair uncomfortably. "You're changing the subject."

Gus crossed his arms. "I think I'm going to have to side with Shawn— I think you're in over your head and you can't just fix this yourself." Lassiter started to protest but Gus cut him off. "And to go back to your earlier question, I can't imagine what would get Shawn to back off trying to help you, even if you are inferring that by getting involved with whatever's going on, there will be more trouble than anyone can handle."

"You guys aren't cops," Lassiter broke in. "I know I'm suspended, but I was trained by experts." He stood up abruptly, going towards the window. "Look, did Spencer tell you about the weird notes I received?"

"Yeah. He did research on them a couple of days ago. They are lyrics to two different songs."

Lassiter stopped. "What?"

Gus nodded. "He wanted to talk to you about it. He was going to go back to the hospital that night that you ended up in there with your sprained wrist."

Lassiter's breath was shallow. "Did he tell you why didn't he make it in?"

Gus shrugged. "I guess he was staring at the screen too long. He fell asleep in the office. I found him there the next morning— that was when we found out you'd been arrested."

Lassiter thought of how the days seemed to bleed together. _Maybe the picture had been developed yesterday, _he thought, trying to sort it out in his head, because two days had passed since he'd been arrested. He'd been hoping the picture was faked, but now Guster had confirmed that Shawn had been in the Psych office asleep. He swallowed hard, trying to make a decision. He went to where he'd hidden the photograph, and handed it over to Gus. "Would this make him back off?"

Gus snatched the picture from Lassiter's fingers, studying it with intensity. He looked like he wanted to spit out a question, something beginning with a "w", perhaps "why" or "who" or "when".

"That was here when Samuelson brought me back earlier today," Lassiter explained.

Just then, the door opened and Shawn came in, out of breath. He bent, his hands on his knees and head down for a few seconds before he tried to speak. "I—lost her. Sorry—Lassie. I chased her—think it was her—but then she was in a crowded area–I didn't know—where she might be—" His breathing was stabilizing and he straightened up.

Lassiter stared at him, then glanced at Gus. "Thanks, Spencer," he managed before Gus's angry tone cut into him.

"You weren't going to show this to us, were you?" Gus accused.

Shawn looked from Gus to Lassiter, thoroughly confused. Gus was holding a white square that was the size of the photograph.

"No," Lassiter admitted. "This proves that I'm not worth it to put your lives on the line. You should just get out now before—"

Gus held up his hand and then scowled, first at Lassiter, then at Shawn. "Don't you dare leave the office door unlocked again, Shawn."

Shawn, taken aback, was bewildered. "Huh? You mean the other day? Gus, I told you, I was fine. It's not like—" He stopped speaking when Gus handed him the photograph. He blanched.

Lassiter nervously ran a hand through his hair. "The picture was on the coffee table when Detective Samuelson brought me back here and hooked up the box. I didn't want to show it you because I shouldn't have gotten you involved."

Shawn was quiet, still looking at the photograph.

"But I did, and I'm sorry. You should take this as a warning and back off. I don't want anything to happen to you two. I'm sorry." Lassiter looked at his feet, feeling ashamed.

Shawn was pissed, but not at Lassiter. "Like hell," he spat. "I am _not_ backing off."

"Shawn, the warning's pretty clear," Gus tried to reason. "Someone was in the office—"

Shawn looked up, his green eyes on fire. "No. This is serious, I get it." He swung his eyes to Lassiter, his mouth a tight line. "You need to tell me everything you've been holding back, Lassie. I want to help you, but you've got to cut the crap."

Lassiter frowned. "I don't want you getting hurt. You don't deserve—"

"Shut up," Shawn snapped. "Did you deserve to be hurt?"

Lassiter didn't know what to say. Gus tried to speak, but Shawn stomped his foot hard and grunted with frustration. "Obviously something else is going on here. You _need_ help figuring it out. And Juliet and Vick are out of range. You can't even leave your apartment now, so how are you going to clear your own name? Look, the picture is scary. I get it. I'm scared, but I'm not backing off this. Especially not now. Gus, come on, our office was violated. Doesn't that piss you off?"

Gus said dryly, "Yeah. But what pisses me off more is that some stranger was in the office, taking a picture of you while you were asleep." He glanced at Lassiter, whose face had gone white.

"He's right, Spencer. These people are kidnappers . . . killers. Who knows what else?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Uh, stalkers? Look, Lassie, if these are the same people who kidnapped and framed you, what do you think they still want from you? Why do you think they are still hanging around, sending you notes, coming after you in the hospital?" He shook the paper. "Sending you this picture—"

"Changing my lock," Lassiter broke in.

"What?" Shawn and Gus exclaimed at the same time.

Lassiter sighed. "Maybe you guys should sit down." While they sat, Lassiter tried one more time to get them to go. "Are you absolutely sure you still want to be involved?"

"Lassie," Shawn said, exasperated.

"Okay." He licked his lips. He started with the encounter in the hospital, and talked about the minor things he'd experienced that he was certain were memories. He summed up the dream he'd had before Vick took him to the police station, then about blacking out in the interrogation room. He paused, a blush creeping over his face. Lassiter recounted what had occurred in the precinct hallway and the memory he'd had of the woman, except for what he remembered her saying about wanting to have some fun with him. He wiped his face and shifted his weight many times. It made him very uncomfortable to talk about her.

Shawn and Gus exchanged glances while he talked. Gus briefly interrupted to ask if the hospital may have security footage. Shawn said it was another thing they could look into. When Lassiter paused again, Shawn asked, "This is the same woman I was just chasing?"

Lassiter recalled her stance–audacious, really what she was—when he stood at his window. He sank into the arm chair, swallowing nervously. "Y-yes."

"And you called her 'Note-tey'," Shawn recalled.

Lassiter nodded. "Notte," he repeated. He chewed his lip for few seconds. "But I think that's a surname."

When he was quiet for a little while, Gus pressed, "What about your lock?"

"Oh, right," Lassiter said distractedly. "When Samuelson brought me back here, I was still kind of out of it. Apparently there was a locksmith here, replacing the lock."

"Apparently?" Shawn raised an eyebrow.

Lassiter threw up his hands. "I told you, I was out of it. Look, you can always go to Detective Samuelson to ask for a description of the guy." Lassiter leaned forward and grabbed the pink receipt out of the magazine and gave it to Shawn. Shawn's eyes flickered over the company's name, then its odd tag line again. "The name of that company is the same name that that creep who got into my hospital room said was going to be angry that I talked to the cops. Bernise."

Gus felt his mouth go dry. One of them, no, two, had been right here, today, one in Lassiter's apartment, and the other just outside. This was a little too much; he was seriously worried about Shawn. He briefly considered letting Henry in on this . . . but he knew Shawn would never speak to him again. He pushed the thought out of his head and tried to remember that he trusted Shawn. But he was still worried.

"The worker left two keys with the receipt, and I was curious because they looked too familiar," Lassiter continued. "So I checked them against the keys from the envelope . . . and they're a match to one."

"What?" Shawn said, starting to stand up, as if he'd need to confirm this for himself.

"Since they were a match to that key, I checked my original apartment key, and guess what?" He didn't even need to finish.

"So they replaced the temporary lock with your old lock?" Gus asked. "Maybe it was just a coincidence." He figured he was grasping at straws.

Lassiter shook his head. "I didn't call anyone to fix the lock. I didn't even know it had been broken until I overheard O'Hara telling Vick she couldn't find her key for the temporary lock when I was at the station."

Gus reached over and punched Shawn in the arm. "Way to get her in trouble, Shawn."

"Ow," Shawn said, irritated. He shifted so he was out of range of any more blows from Gus. "I needed that key to get in here and get the glass," he explained to Lassiter's puzzled face. "I was going to give it back."

Lassiter waved the statement away as if he didn't care that Shawn was a pickpocket. He pointed to the receipt Shawn was still holding. "There's a customer service number. I called it, it rang twenty times before a recording tells me that the number is no longer in service." The silence stretched. Lassiter pressed back against the chair, feeling guilty for telling them anything.

Shawn didn't like that Lassie was going to be here alone while some creeps had keys to his place. What if the "locksmith" or the mysterious woman came back? What about the strange man from the hospital? Before he and Gus left Shawn made Lassiter promise to call his cell if anything happened. "Or even if you just get weirded out. Send me a text. Let me know. Tomorrow Gus and I can look into this so-called locksmith and possible hospital security tapes. Maybe we can swing by the station now and get a description of the guy that was here."

Lassiter shrugged and struggled with not telling them to waste their time on him. Or put themselves in danger. He sighed inwardly. Spencer always seemed to running towards the line of fire rather than away, like Guster. He suspected there wouldn't be a way to change Spencer's mind, no matter what he said or didn't say.

"Oh, yeah, Lassie, I almost forgot," Shawn began, "I was talking with this hypnotist—"

"Maybe you should hit the road," Lassiter managed evenly. "Thanks for the food." They left and Lassiter locked the door, wondering if he should pull a chair in front of it. He decided against it as a matter of pride. He closed the front window almost all the way, then turned off all the lights in the front room. Though it was just after 8 o'clock, he found he was exhausted.

He got into his bed for the first time since he'd been abducted. He didn't think he could actually sleep, but he was under in a matter of minutes. Inside his head was only darkness, no dreams at all. While Lassiter dozed, a shadow moved and hair tickled his cheek. The stale air in the room wafted with potent vanilla. In his sleep he brushed his hand across his face.


	10. Chapter 9: Storm in the Morning Light

**Chapter Nine: Storm In The Morning Light, I Feel No More**

**_____________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer:I do not own any references made to Starbucks or references to the lyrics to the song _White Rabbit_. I also do not own lyrics to Metallica's _I Disappear_, Future Leaders of the World's _Let Me Out_ or The Vincent Black Shadow's _This Road is Going Nowhere_. I also do not own Post-it Notes, Cheetos, Funions, Pringles or Combos.

Vocabulary: Caro = Darling (masculine form).

Author's Note: I just wanted to thank everyone who has been reading and reviewing so far. The reviews mean so much to me. Things in my personal life aren't so great right now and this story as well as its reviews are the only bright spots. So thanks again, you all are wonderful.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Carlton stared blearily around his bedroom before glancing at his alarm clock. It was only seven in the morning. He wasn't sure what had woken him. His internal clock? Or maybe it was because he slept a full twelve hours, which he hadn't done since he was in his teens. He had slept in a dreamless state; though awakening, he felt a restless pull under his skin. He pulled his bedspread up until only his eyes were exposed. He listened, but the apartment was silent except for the hum of electrical appliances. His wrist panged, then his shoulder. He lifted his shirt rested his hand on the cut across his stomach, which was still bandaged. Carlton wondered about his foot; it wasn't hurting at the moment but he didn't want to unwrap the dressing just yet. He closed his eyes and thought back to what had happened in the station.

He felt he should be embarrassed, but it was all a blur. He knew he'd been answering Samuelson's irritating questions but at some point he'd entered his own mind where he'd experienced a shivery sight. He'd had bodily matter on his hands, blood, skin, muscle tissue, a congealed, slippery mess that globbed onto his fingers when he'd reached out curiously. After O'Hara and Samuelson brought him around, he had a difficult time believing he'd really been unconscious for such a long while. The memory must have only taken a half second; what else had he seen in there that might be important? Around him, so much yelling, Vick, Oswley, Samuelson. O'Hara standing over him, worry twisting her young face with intense strain. Her lips were moving but he couldn't hear the sounds. His eyes almost closing, his head tilting back—then violent shaking, and then her face again, aged ten years, her lips shaping his name.

He couldn't recall how he'd gotten to the bench in the hallway. His lawyer, Jeremy Oswley, had come into the interrogation room after most of the yelling had ceased. He'd nodded his head in time with the words Oswley said, but Lassiter didn't hear a word. O'Hara was standing by the door, chewing her lip. He could see her there, white as a crepe paper ghost, and he wanted to tell her that if she kept chewing her lip it would bleed. His junior partner looked youthful, but there was a hardness about her eyes that Lassiter hadn't noticed before. He was surprised by the intensity on her usually warm face. Then, in the hallway, had he really been isolated? Could other officers or interns have been wandering about? Could they have also seen this woman, whose elegance and grace were as startling as the cruel playfulness she exhibited on him? He knew he had not imagined her; last night Spencer had chased her into a crowded area, which swallowed her doll frame, her twisting ribbons of dark chocolate hair. Lassiter shifted to his left side, easing his braced wrist onto his leg to rest. He was not usually the stay in bed all day type; though it couldn't have been more than fifteen or twenty past seven.

When he closed his eyes, the woman was still there. Lassiter let the memory of her kissing him creep over him, though her presence in his mind was not pleasing as it may have been if he'd met her in some other time frame. Though it was hard for him to imagine dating such an elemental, manipulative little creature. He was afraid of what might come back to him, unwanted.

_Lassiter was sitting very still, his eyes open, the space in front of him nondescript. Then, the heady scent of vanilla sliding down the air. He wasn't aware that there was something in his mouth until slinky fingers pulled it out. Then her lips were on his, she was parting his lips with her tongue. He remembered trying to move his hands, but it seemed they'd been fused together, resting on his lap. A closed mouth smile. Round dark brown eyes. Her dark hair tickling his cheek. _

_"What are you doing?" a male voice admonished._

_"Ah, let me have some fun with him, won't you?" She turned her head and her dark hair brushed across Lassiter's skin._

_"You should take care with that gag," the male voice told her. _

_"Ah, no one is around." The pout was obvious in her tone. She nuzzled Lassiter's cheek, not minding the stubble. Then she puckered a few quick kisses onto his neck. Her mouth against his ear, whispering, "You haveh 'drown-in-me' eyes, _caro_."_

Lassiter's left hand was suddenly at his mouth. Was he to always be haunted by these fragments, partially hidden by the darkness of his mind? Shaking out the images, he made himself focus. He'd had a gag in his mouth, and bound hands. _Why? _Had he been a threat? Had he tried to run? Had there been civilians around to hear him yell? His fingers brushed at stubble, and he shivered violently. He pushed himself up with his good arm and went to his bathroom to wash the night from his mouth. In the mirror, he saw gray under his eyes, though he had slept the whole night. The bruises on his face and neck had faded enough to be out of sight, though the skin was still tender. As he pressed the razor against his cheek, he could feel the soggy cloth in his mouth, as if he were still gagged. Lassiter swallowed hard, trying to get the sensation to pass, and flinched when he nicked himself. He finished shaving carefully then brushed his hair, looking wistfully at the shower before deciding it could wait.

He padded out to the living room area for the bag of prescriptions, getting them out and lining them up on the counter next to the sink. It was difficult to make heads or tails of what they were and what ache they were supposed to cure. Maybe later if he had some patience, he could read through the inserts that came with each. Lassiter selected one and scanned the label. He realized this was the one he'd taken last night after Spencer and Guster's arrival. A small icon on the bottom left corner hinted the dosage should only be taken with food. He sighed, and then went to make a pot of coffee. There was just enough for ten cups; he'd have to send Spencer out on that promised grocery run. As the coffee started to brew, he grabbed the empty milk container Spencer had left out and headed for the trash, which was next to the refrigerator. Eyes downcast, he tossed it in. Something white caught his right eye. He looked up at the refrigerator and gasped. Lassiter started to reach for it but stopped himself. He read it, then again, then ran his finger over its edge to prove that it was actually there.

#

_I'm a liar and a cheat_

_in prison_

_Accused of telling the truth_

#

A taunting, like fake locksmith's appearance, like the woman across the street with her twisting hair. It was on a small white note card. Tiny square letters. Pinned to the fridge by one of flat gun magnet replicas. The muzzle of the pistol was pointed right at the line "telling the truth", as if it were the perfect motive to shoot someone.

He thought only briefly about calling Spencer. _No way._ But if the note was here, then it meant . . . _someone had been in here while he slept_. What did they want with him still? His life, his career, his self, his sanity, were all nearly ruined. He couldn't be trusted, he was incoherent, he was drifting between two worlds. This from the man who could stay alert during an 18 hour stakeout, or handle the daily demands of being Head Detective barely breaking a sweat. Long shifts, hours upon hours of anticipating moves of criminals of all sorts, thinking on his feet, hell, thinking fast in dangerous situations. And now, _this_. He thought how ironic Vick would find it, locking him up in his own place, if she really believed that a crime had been committed against him . . . that someone with a key had come in and left him another note. And the tires on his red police-issued Sedan . . . according to Spencer, all slashed. He knew she would think him completely mad.

A little after 9 am, Shawn pulled up to Lassiter's apartment building. He'd found it just a little hard to fall asleep last night, staring at the picture of himself in the office for a long time. He still saw it on the inside of his eyelids when he closed his eyes. Shawn had gotten up and double checked all of the locks before climbing back into bed. He remembered Gus's chiding about him not leaving the doors unlocked and felt startled that there had been someone in there with him. _Huh. That's probably exactly how Lassie felt._

Gus had to work his real job today, so Shawn would be on his own. He wanted to check in on Lassiter, face to face, before setting out on the likely wild goose chase for Bernise Locksmith Company. He parked his bike a few spots down from Lassiter's police issued Sedan, and weaved his way back so he could give it a once over before going in. Shawn stopped when he got to it. The tires were same as a few days ago. No police were stationed outside of the building; maybe Juliet hadn't had a chance to tell Vick. Or maybe Vick thought the information came from a too unreliable source. Shawn scowled at the thought. Well, even if that were true, shouldn't _Juliet_ go on his word and come check it out for herself? Shawn circled the car again; a small detail caught his eye. He squatted down and looked at the part of the driver's side door closest to the wheel. Two words had been keyed into the paint. On the top, "Ask", and just below it, staggered, "Tell". Shawn went to his backpack and took out the disposable camera he'd bought at a drugstore this morning. He took two pictures of the scratched-in words, then one of the words and the slashed driver's side tire. Then he went around snapping a picture of each slashed tire. He slipped the camera back in the backpack and started up the sidewalk when his phone rang.

"Lassie?" Shawn managed before Lassiter growled, "Just _what_ do you think you're doing out there, Spencer?"

Shawn looked to find the Detective at his front window, the curtains pushed back to reveal Lassiter's angry glare. Shawn waved and Lassiter stepped back from his view. Shawn mused that Lassie sounded like his old self, grumpy and no nonsense. But then again the anger might be there to cover something else.

"Stopping by, remember?" Shawn said, now inside the lobby. He was on his way down the hall when he heard Lassiter throw something and then curse. _Uh, oh_. Lassiter grumbled on the line, but Shawn said, "I'd really rather not tell you by phone. If that's okay," he added loudly, right outside of Lassiter's door. The lock turned and Lassiter yanked the door open. He wore slacks, a dress shirt, jacket and tie, and black dress shoes, as if he had to be at the station any minute. Shawn suspected that it was force of habit; he'd never seen the detective wear anything else, except for yesterday. Oh, and during the Civil War reenactment. Admittedly, it had been odd to see him in a t-shirt and sweatpants, but it was even odder that he was dressed up normally like everything was fine.

"Can I come in?" Shawn asked, still holding the phone to his ear. Lassiter was blocking the way. Lassiter glanced over his shoulder into the apartment for a few seconds. Shawn wondered what he was looking at but then thought about what he had seen from his window. Shawn clicked the phone "off" and slid it into his pocket. "Hate to tell you, but someone keyed your car."

Lassiter's face snapped back to Shawn. The color of his eyes was drowning in fury. Abruptly, he moved backwards, and Shawn tentatively stepped in. Lassiter didn't speak. His lips were frozen in a long line. Shawn sighed. "It wasn't just keyed. There are words scraped on your driver's side door. I took pictures so . . . proof, I guess. I told Jules about your tires, but I don't know if—"

Shawn glanced at Lassiter. Somehow, his face was both red and white. He looked as if he was going to start yelling profanities directed at Shawn. "The words were 'Ask' and 'Tell'," he continued.

A shadow crossed Lassiter's eyes and his angry resolve seemed to tear. He swallowed once and then turned from Shawn. He wished Spencer wasn't here. He went to his kitchen for a glass of water. He filled it up but didn't drink. Shawn was watching him. Lassiter set the glass on the counter and muttered gruffly, "Did you sleep?"

"You mean the dark circles?" Shawn quipped. "I guess one Venti Mocha-Java wasn't enough." Shawn's eyes strayed to the fridge and immediately went to the piece of paper held up with a gun magnet. "What the hell is that, Lassie?" he snapped, going towards it.

Lassiter got there the same time as Shawn. "It's no—" Shawn's arm shot out and shoved the detective backwards. Lassiter's back hit the countertop ledge. Shawn's action surprised both of them, but Shawn didn't apologize. Lassiter just stood there, stunned. Shawn read the note and also focused on where the muzzle of the gun was pointing. He was suddenly pissed and wanted to storm out, but he resisted. It took a lot of will power.

"When?" he forced out through clenched teeth.

Lassiter stared back for a couple seconds, and then went back to the sink and drank half of the water in the glass. "It was there when I got up, around seven thirty. My door was locked." Still holding the glass, he threw it against a wall, making Shawn jump. Water and glass, both clear, spread out all over the white tile floor. "_Goddammit_, Spencer. My door was locked." His back was to Shawn. Shawn listened to what he wasn't saying: "I'm scared." "I don't know what to do." "What do they want from me?" by way of the detective's body language. He'd been correct in guessing the anger was only a carefully placed mask.

"You can't keep this stuff to yourself," Shawn said firmly. "If you get a note, if you see someone or something that's familiar but you're not sure why, you _need_ to tell me." Lassiter was stock still, listening. "Because, like it or not, I'm involved now. They sent you a picture of me."

Lassiter thought about it, and then nodded curtly. He turned from the mess and looked at Shawn. "You're right." Then he gave Shawn a skewered, sheepish look. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

Shawn grinned, and relaxed.

Lassiter frowned. "'Ask' and 'Tell'?" he said aloud, thinking back to the second note. He went towards the coffee table where the notes still sat. "Last night, Guster said you'd done some research about these and found out they are song lyrics?" He handed Shawn the first note and kept the second note to read it again.

"Right," Shawn confirmed. "This one's from a Metallica song called "I Disappear". And that one is called "The Road Is Going Nowhere" by . . . a group named after a motorcycle."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows in spite of himself. "Yours?"

"No," Shawn said. "The band's called Black Shadow, I think."

Lassiter read the note he had in his hands aloud:

"Ask for another day

Ask for something worth the price

you'll have to pay."

He stopped, a coldness on his skin.

"I printed out the lyrics," Shawn said, going to his backpack. He rummaged through it and found two printouts and handled them to Lassiter. When Lassiter didn't take them right away, Shawn ventured, "Why is that one so extra scary for you?" As he said it he realized he hadn't witnessed Lassiter's reactions to the other notes, but he still wanted to know if this particular passage had some kind of significance.

Lassiter continued to stare at the words. _The stakes are up, Your odds are down._ He didn't have the answer. "I guess— they just have a resonance that I think is important, but I can't place why." He looked up. "Really. That's the truth. Plus, it really hits me that this isn't some nightmare I'm going to wake up from and have everything be fine. That they're not just some bad, delusory images in my head." Lassiter took the printouts, scanning the first, with a slight chill, and then the second. "I wish I could tell you that these spell it all out for me, but—"

Shawn shrugged. "Well, we know they are clues, vague or not." His looked towards the latest, still in the kitchen. "What about that?"

Lassiter turned around and glanced at it. "It's an obvious taunt." He swallowed hard. "I feel like they are almost daring me to remember more . . . because no one's going to believe me anyway," he huffed.

"Huh," Shawn said. "That's the interpretation the spirits were just telling me—"

Lassiter bit his lip to keep himself from throwing Shawn out the door.

"What's that, spirits? That _can't_ be true. Wait, wait, let me ask him. Lassie, do you really only have dial-up?"

Lassiter looked annoyed. He started to ask how Shawn knew that, but said instead, "What do I need anything else for? You think I have time—usually—to sit in front of a computer checking e-mail?"

Shawn looked like he wanted to laugh, but managed to suppress it. "Now I can't decide, of what the spirits just told me, which is funnier. The fact that your computer is almost ten years old, or that you keep it in a box under your bed— but all plugged in, just in case."

Lassiter honestly had no idea how Spencer knew those things. It was unnerving, but he still wouldn't let himself believe Spencer was really psychic. "What the hell is your point?" he snipped.

"I wanted to see if that note contains song lyrics, too," Shawn said. "Unless, does your cell have internet access?" Shawn spotted Lassiter's cell phone resting on the edge of the island. He scooped it up and was scanning through the apps before Lassiter could even open his mouth to protest. Shawn grinned. "Great, you do." He got on Google and typed the words from the note into "search".

"Do I?" Lassiter asked. "Good to know."

The first page that came up read: "Let Me Out lyrics Future Leaders of the World". Shawn went to it. "Got it. They're from a song called 'Let Me Out'."

Lassiter snorted and smiled humorlessly.

Shawn scanned the lyrics before handing the phone to Lassiter, who read them, then shrugged. He passed the phone back.

#

_Let me out. let me out_

_Let me out, I'm singing_

_Let me out, let me out_

_Let me out, I'm singing_

_I'm a liar and a cheat in prison_

_Accused of telling the truth_

_#_

"Let me out, I'm singing," Shawn read. "Singing." He thought. "That can't be literal."

He could sing, but he figured Spencer was right; it couldn't be literal. Lassiter stood thinking. "Could that mean—talking to you? Telling you what I remember?"

"Maybe. And these creeps made Vick think you're a liar," Shawn translated from the lyrics, "and you're locked in prison—your apartment . . . even though you're telling the truth."

_Locked in the prison of telling the truth. Or most of it._ "I wasn't completely straight with Vick," Lassiter admitted. "I didn't tell her about the t-shirt because I was hoping once I got out of the hospital I could work with O'Hara and figure it out." He smiled bitterly, the hurt evident in his eyes. He turned away from Shawn and went towards the medications he'd lined up on the counter.

"Dude, you couldn't have known what was going to happen," Shawn told him. "I mean, especially since your memory was all _tabula rasa_."

Lassiter, with his back to Shawn, raised an eyebrow to his vocabulary, but refrained from comment. He stared absently at the pill bottles, still not knowing what each was for. He'd have to figure it out soon, because his foot was starting to throb. He wiggled the fingers in the arm brace, discomfited at how stiff they felt. He wished he would have thought to ask Guster, who knew a thing or two about pharmaceuticals.

"Besides," Shawn continued, "what if you told her and she immediately thought you were guilty?"

"Oh, rather than her gradually thinking I'm guilty?" Lassiter sighed. It wasn't fair; he knew Spencer was just trying to help. "But I know what I sound like to her," he added. "Crazed." He sighed again, and gave up on trying to figure out which pill would lead him to the white rabbit and which pill would erase all his pain completely.

Shawn made a face but wasn't sure how to answer. Shawn thought about the connection he'd been making with the song titles a few days ago. He picked up the lyrics for "I Disappear" and read the first lines of the first verse to himself.

#

_Hey, hey, hey_

_Here I go now, _

_here I go into new days_

#

Then he read the chorus of "This Road is Going Nowhere":

#

_Ask for another day_

_Ask for something worth_

_the price you'll have to pay_

_The stakes are up_

_Your odds are down_

_And I will be damned_

_If I let you back into this town_

_#_

His eyes went back and forth between the pages while he considered the latest, "Let Me Out". _Here I go into new days . . . ask for another day . . . I'm a liar . . . accused of telling the truth._

Did they link up? They notes' intensity seemed to be building, so they couldn't be random. They were supposed to demoralize Lassiter, make him too afraid to ask for help, and Shawn knew they were serving their purpose. _Ask. Tell._ He thought about that. Too afraid to _ask_ for help or to _ask_ for another day. Too afraid of _tell_ing the truth. The trail grew cold. _Ugh_. Shawn was frustrated because he couldn't make the sense of them he'd been hoping for. He dropped them on the coffee table.

"Did you get to the station last night?" Carlton asked. Shawn handed him the phone, and Lassiter set it back on the island.

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, we did." He went to the backpack and got out some Post-its where he'd written the information Detective Samuelson had told him. He'd had Gus stand guard, in case Vick or Juliet showed up, just outside of Samuelson's office, which he obviously shared with at least two other detectives, whose desks were empty at the time.

Shawn explained to Samuelson that he had been there when Juliet and the Chief broke down the door and he had wanted to check up on Lassiter since he knew the detective had gotten out of the hospital.

"You know that he's been suspended, right?" Samuelson said.

Shawn nodded. "Some inflated charge against him or something."

Samuelson flicked his warm hazel eyes over Shawn, seeming remorseful to break whatever impression Shawn might have of the real reason why Lassiter was arrested. "It was murder, Mr. Spencer."

"Oh," Shawn said, trying for his best 'lightly surprised' tone. He swiped at the back of his neck as if chagrinned. "Well, I didn't mean to bother you, Detective, but when I was there I noticed that the lock had been replaced. It looked like good work." He smiled and looked the man in the eyes. "You see, my father's got this lock on the garage door that's practically falling apart. He keeps all his expensive fishing stuff in there but refuses to change the lock. I keep telling it's just as bad as leaving the door wide open. I was thinking if I could find a really good locksmith, he'd reconsider." Shawn hoped he was making his father sound as senile and careless as possible. "Detective Lassiter mentioned that some company had been working on the lock when he got back."

"That's right," Samuelson confirmed. "Kind of a strange worker, but efficient, I guess."

"Strange? How? The way he looked or talked?"

Samuelson shrugged and crossed his arms, as if Shawn were keeping him from something important, like eating candy out of a storage locker.

"Well, anyway, did you happen to see the company? Lassiter said he wasn't paying attention."

This got Samuelson to open up, as if he had really wanted to confess Lassiter's behavior to someone but hadn't found the appropriate place. He eked out the details of the description of the worker by telling Shawn how Lassiter failed to even acknowledge that anyone else was there. He mentioned Lassiter was like one of those life-size cardboard cutouts and Shawn wanted to joke that Lassiter was like that all the time anyway, but managed to hold his tongue. Samuelson told Shawn the worker had worn gloves. "You know, I didn't see any company name on the jumpsuit. But the guy gave Lassiter a receipt. The name would have to be on it." He'd also added that maybe Shawn should call rather than go over, because Lassiter was a murder suspect. Shawn had rolled his eyes once he was outside the office.

Shawn repeated the description of the worker Samuelson had told him to Lassiter. Caucasian, six foot even, lean, sporting a baggy gray jumpsuit and gray work gloves. He had also worn a cap that had completely hidden his hair, and such thick glasses that Samuelson hadn't been able to discern an eye color. There were no distinguishing facial features, so Lassiter ruled out that he couldn't have been the man who threatened him in the hospital. "He also said the guy had a funny accent, but he couldn't place what it was."

Lassiter thought about the questions Shawn had been asking him last night before he'd confessed what had been going on. _"What do you think they still want from you? Why do you think they are still hanging around, sending you notes, coming after you in the hospital? Sending you this picture?" _He really didn't know those answers. With the picture, he figured it was just warning that they were also now stalking Shawn because they knew, somehow, that he was helping out. And the latest note seemed to be— _god_, he really couldn't believe one them had been in here last night. He ran his hand over his face.

"Are you listening to me?" Shawn broke into Lassiter's thoughts.

"Uh. No, sorry. I was thinking," Lassiter muttered.

"I was just saying that I think you should write all this down in a notebook. You can keep these Post-its and they could be your start. What you write doesn't even have to be in chronological order."

"This?"

"Yeah." Shawn rolled his eyes. "The notes, about the keys, the descriptions you have of what these people look like— the guy in the hospital, the woman and the faux locksmith. Names. Memories or dreams you've had. Your new lock. Injuries, how you got them, or even you don't know how. The picture you got of me. You know."

Spencer was staring at him expectantly, so Lassiter nodded. "Right." It was a good idea; but he seemed hesitant.

"Do you have something against this? Not a fan of 'dear diary'?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes, finally snapping out of his stupor. "Spencer, I'm a cop. I take detailed notes for every case I'm on. I think I can handle it."

"You can't leave anything out, Lassie. Just write everything down, even that feeling you had of someone being in here before you passed out the other day. It may not seem important, but sometimes the smallest details can crack a case. Which you should know, being a cop."

_Oh. That day._ Was _that just a hallucination?_ Lassiter wondered. He recalled the fear's intensity with a knot in his throat, and started to feel lightheaded. He took a few shifty steps, and then steadied his breathing. He was embarrassed to be feeling this way in front of Spencer, especially since he had been here, with O'Hara and Vick, no less, when he'd fainted—practically right in front of them. In his usual disposition, he saved his fears for when he was alone, and kept his other emotions to a bare minimum unless any given situation involved anger, concentration, wry humor, intense determination or the rare moment when a genuine smile could seep through. He caught a quick glimpse of Spencer, and was mildly surprised to see that the so-called psychic's face was written over with concern and fear. Did he really look that bad? Spencer reached out and grabbed his arm, jarring the detective to a stop. He hadn't even realized he'd been in motion.

"Bad memories?" Spencer asked, letting go of Lassiter's arm.

"I—I just don't know." Lassiter took a shallow breath. "When I remember something that must have happened while I was missing—it's not normal like a regular memory. You know, where you recall an experience that occurred but isn't as vivid as the actual moment? When I remember— it's like I'm re-living everything about it. I remember what I was doing, thinking, feeling—" He broke off.

"So you're saying that if were feeling jumpy or angry or irrational or whatever during the memory, the exact intensity of what you felt then hits you like a tidal wave?"

Lassiter nodded. "That's exactly what it's like."

"Huh. Maybe you should write that weirdness down too." Shawn recalled how hard it had been for Lassiter to tell him and Gus everything last night, and Shawn had thought at the time it was because Lassiter was a proud man who believed he shouldn't burden other people with his problems. That was probably part of it too.

Lassiter sighed. "This is going to sound paranoid—hell, it probably is, but what if I keep a log and they get in here and find it?"

"Oh," Shawn mumbled. His eyes swung towards the note, still pinned to the fridge. He shivered involuntarily, and played it off as a cold chill, though he didn't need to play tough guy in front Lassiter, especially not now. "Okay. I've got it. You write down everything you remember so far and then you give me the notes and I'll hold onto them. Put them in a safe place."

Lassiter thought about it and frowned. Shawn saw that he was about to start protesting, because he wore a look in his eyes that was similar to the one yesterday when he'd told him and Gus they should back off because of the photograph. "Look," he cut in before Lassiter could open his mouth, "I agree that you probably shouldn't leave a notebook lying around here with that kind of information in it. Just in case. I'll take it and that way I can go over your notes with fresh eyes." He winked. "Maybe see something that your non-psychic eyes may have missed." Lassiter seemed like he was losing his patience. "And maybe I can connect it up with something you wouldn't be able to because of your being stuck in here." Lassiter's angry posturing deflated. _Dammit._ _God damn ankle cuff. God damn murder rap._

The land line rang. Lassiter went over and answered it. His tone was flat and obligatory, with the majority of his answers monosyllabic. He asked no questions. When he hung up, he told Shawn that Vick was sending over a police psychoanalyst or psychologist so the professional could determine if he would be up to interrogation.

"When's that happening?"

"About an hour." Lassiter sounded drawn, but he shrugged his shoulders. "Samuelson did say."

Shawn nodded. "Well, today I'm going to see about those tapes. Maybe we can gain some insight on just who would be wandering around your floor at 2 O'clock in the morning unnoticed. Then I'm going to look around and see if anyone knows about this locksmith company." Shawn looked over the receipt, still on the coffee table. It looked official, but it was all too possible it could be a fake. He copied down the information that might help him find it: the company name, phone number, even the tag line, into a a small pad of paper from his backpack. It was annoying that there wasn't an address or a website, but if it really was a fake company, it wouldn't need those things. "I could stop by later and pick up the notes— if you get a chance to write some out." Shawn didn't want to imply that Lassie needed a baby-sitter; he suspected the detective would throw him out by the scruff of his neck right now if he even joked about it, but he couldn't help being disquieted. Shawn knew that if Gus were in this situation, he'd be camped out in Gus's guest bedroom until the problem was solved. Or if it were Jules— he'd be her shadow, her constant protector (despite his girlish scream and tendency to hide when frightened). Lassiter was a bit of different story— Shawn knew that he'd only gotten Lassie to open up because his mysterious stalkers had taken the photograph of him and given it to Lassie. Hell, that fake locksmith probably brought it in and set it on the coffee table himself. Lassiter could be deliberately elusive— if his own personal safety was on the line. But throw anyone else into the mix, the guard dropped. He had hoped to cow Shawn and Gus into dropping it, but from what Shawn had just witnessed with Lassie's swaying and the terror on his face, as well as everything since Lassiter had caught him snooping around— well, he knew trouble when he saw it.

"Spencer."

"Yup. I'm here," Shawn said, blinking away his thoughts.

"Is that offer for groceries still valid?"

Shawn cracked a smile. The request was so ridiculously formal. "Um, yeah. What, are you out of coffee?" Lassiter's glare made Shawn's smile wider. Lassiter went to get some cash out of his wallet. He'd already looked through it at some point and was surprised to see all his money and credit cards still there. Though the attackers had taken what they'd come for, after all, he'd thought with a wince. He really wondered why they let him go. _Or had they?_

"Do you have a list?" Shawn called from the front room. "'Cause if you don't, you're going to end up with twelve bags of Cheetos, two cans of Pringles and a bag of Funions. And maybe one of those mini packages of Combos, if there's any money left." Lassiter grimaced. He got a pen and small pad of paper out of one of the dresser drawers and wrote down the essentials— coffee, milk, bread, cereal, and a few other things including lunch meat, produce, eggs and whatnot. Afterwards he stared at the list, wondering what he would actually do with all this food. He couldn't imagine eating any of it; his stomach growled. He sighed. He'd only managed coffee so far; after the note he'd made himself go into full routine mode and had kept that mask in place until Spencer arrived with the news about his keyed car.

He took three twenties and the list to Spencer. "I expect a receipt and change," Lassiter told him sternly, but Shawn already had a gleam in his eye regarding the conversation about snack foods. Shawn stuck the list and the cash into his wallet.

"Spencer."

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

"At the grocery store? Don't worry, I won't be too flashy. But I'm probably going to flirt with all the cute girls in produce." He smiled at Lassiter's stony face. The older man sighed.

"I'm serious, Spencer. You should be fine at the hospital but this Bernise Locksmith Company—"

Shawn held up a hand. "Is fake. And if it's not I'd be shocked. Lassie, what do you think is going to happen to me?"

Lassiter got a dark image of Spencer getting pulled into a van, but didn't share it. "Just be careful. These people know what you look like. They know where you work."

"True," Shawn admitted. "But I'll be fine."

Lassiter noticed that Spencer didn't sound troubled or anxious. He was buoyant and eager. Lassiter really hoped that the photograph was the last thing he was going to get in regards to Spencer. He hoped he was not digging Spencer's grave as well as his own; he shuddered.

After Shawn left, Lassiter realized he hadn't told him the most recent memory he'd had this morning. But then he blushed furiously, walking towards his window as if he expected to see the woman hanging out across the street again. The street was empty. Lassiter heard Shawn's motorcycle powering away. He couldn't imagine how telling Spencer that he remembered being bound and gagged could help in any way. He touched his lips; he could feel the woman's fierce kisses; he'd just sat there and let her kiss him. _Why?_

"Because I couldn't move," Carlton said aloud, a weight hitting him. And the reason he couldn't move wasn't because he'd had bound hands. A voice had told him gruffly, _"Sit here. Stay here."_ And he had, as if he were paralyzed.

Lassiter sat down hard, realizing halfway down that he was going to hit the floor. He was glad that Spencer had gone. His knees jarred up to his teeth when they hit the hardwood, but he didn't move for a long time. He decided that, after the psychoanalyst left, if he wasn't feeling like too much of a wreck, he'd start the notes. Spencer was right, small details might be important. This memory had just opened the door to another. He swallowed hard, then got to his feet. He figured he should take something to at least satisfy the edge of his pain, leaving a dull throb in the center. After all, he didn't want the drugs to make him too loopy for this person. Because, he reasoned, he would likely sound loopy enough on his own.

He went into his bedroom and opened the bottom drawer to one of his dressers. For his last birthday, Juliet had given him a leather-bound journal. He'd thanked her, but hadn't had a clue what he would use it for. He wasn't really the "journaling type"; all the notes he took or observations he recorded related to active cases, which were filed away at the station. He held it, feeling the strangeness of the blank pages he would fill and hope to make sense of his ordeal— which, he thought with a snap of chill, was far from over.


	11. Chapter 10: If Your Past Approaches You

**Chapter Ten:** **If Your Past Approaches You, Don't Be Fooled Into A War You'll Lose**

**____________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer: I do not own lyrics to Splashdown's _Karma Slave_ or references to Sister Hazel.

Vocabulary: Mi caro = My darling (masculine form); El trinciante = The carving knife

____________________________________________________________________________

* * *

Shawn had no luck at the hospital. He'd enjoyed sweet talking Mandy, a 21 year old intern, flashing her his badly laminated "police" ID badge, but the tapes had nothing to offer. The camera on the corridor which Lassiter's room had been on, Mandy explained, was on a five second delay. She obviously didn't see the necessity of having a direct feed in case strangers were to attack patients in the middle of the night. Which Shawn, of course, did not explain to her. The only things Shawn saw was the door to Lassiter's room closing around 2:08 am, and then a grainy figure with its back to the camera walking away from the corridor around 2:14 am. It was impossible to tell by gait if this person was a nurse or an orderly or one of the many janitorial staff. Mandy cheerfully explained that it was likely a nurse making his or her rounds. Shawn managed a few charming smiles before thanking her and leaving. Down in the lobby, he found a pay phone and checked the phone book, but had no luck locating any Bernise Locksmith Company. He pulled the information out of his backpack and called the number from Lassiter's receipt, only to get the same recording Lassie had heard. It made Shawn's skin prickle, but he left Santa Barbara General with the determination of finding something.

Well, he'd found something . . . but it hadn't been anything he'd been looking for.

* * *

The psychoanalyst was prompt. It was half past ten when she knocked. When Carlton opened the door, she asked his name and then offered a firm hand shake, identifying herself as Dr. Ann Rhodes, professional police psychologist specializing in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She was trim, with neatly styled auburn hair, round red glasses and was wearing a suit nearly identical to what Lassiter would see Vick or O'Hara wear on a daily basis. He tried to push thoughts of them out his mind. He had raised an eyebrow when she mentioned PTSD; this must have been on the insistence of Jeremy Oswley. Still, this didn't automatically mean that she would be on his side.

The session began with the basics; then she spoke for a few minutes, before asking him to explain what recent experiences had brought him to the point of the episode at the station. Lassiter remained calm, detaching himself as much as possible while telling her about his abduction and memory loss. He maintained his innocence, and explained the episode as one of the many strange dreams he had been having lately— mostly dreams while was awake. He explained that often before one of these dreams, he felt lightheaded or experienced a blood-and-guts overwhelming feeling that took him completely inside the dream. He used the word _dream_ rather than _memory_, because the memories were much too disjointed to allow for a full picture, and he wasn't certain he was allowed to confide in her that which returned to him so violently without sounding like a complete loon. _Was that a breath on the back of his neck? _Lassiter ran a hand across his face, suppressing a shudder by tightening his shoulder blades. Did this count as speaking with police? He moved the fingers of his non-sprained wrist across the fabric of chair he sat in. Dr. Rhodes was speaking, perhaps asking him a direct question but his nerves were on the fray. Lassiter's eyebrows pinched together. _Black hair curling, her doll face leaning into his. She was beautiful but he was too out of place to appreciate it. Her laugh, her lips on his cheek._ _"Tell me again, _caro._"_ _He knew he lips were shaping the words: "I will not talk to police," while the young woman smiled darkly, clapping her hands together. _

"Excuse me," Carlton mumbled, standing up abruptly. He meant to get a glass of water. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. _What if they were watching him right now?_ Lassiter teetered a little on the balls of his feet. No, this was bad. This was unprofessional. He took a few steps towards the kitchen, glancing to his left side towards the front window. The curtains were drawn up, obscuring the majority of the view to outside. Did that mean that they couldn't see in?

"Can you tell me about this dream you experienced at the station?" Dr. Rhodes asked as she adjusted her glasses. She had her pen poised over a notepad.

"It's—sure." Lassiter spun back a little too quickly, but managed to stabilize himself by grabbing a floor lamp. While he related it she wrote; he could hear the point of the pen scratching against the paper as loud as a hammer pounding a nail into a wall. Time slowed, as if he'd slipped beneath the surface of a pool. He looked up and in front of him, walls of black molasses seemed march towards him. After a while, he couldn't hear his own voice at all. All he heard was a loud rush of water, as if he were curled up in a sink right next to an open drain, while a stream poured around him. He looked up, blinking furiously at the brightness. He heard a laugh, but it was somewhere in the past. A memory was filling up his mouth with sand; a sharp pain across his stomach. _Cut a piece of skin from me. _He wanted to move but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. He wanted to speak but there was sand in his mouth.

Gray-black fuzz sizzled around him; Lassiter felt a tingling in his hands. His blue eyes stared upwards, confused. The woman, Dr. Rhodes, was bending over him, speaking to him with a mechanical distorted voice. "Rawr ewe ooooohhhkkkkaaayyyy??" The sound hurt his ears; the shrill _caw caw_ of sea birds. What had happened? Wasn't everything civil? No accusations, just a conversation between two adults. Granted, he was a murder suspect and she was a police psychoanalyst, but neither had been shouting. He had been opening up . . . granted, not about everything, but he was sharing the memories Vick was too ticked off to have patience for.

Her hand on his shoulder. When she called his name, he heard it as a normal cadence; he was coming out of whatever had occurred. Lassiter pushed himself up; he was on the floor. He wiped at his eyes with his fingertips. Were those tears? He frowned with a scoff.

"Have you ever fainted before?" Dr. Rhodes was asking.

He wanted to scowl at her; she should know he had; considering she was here because of what had happened in the interrogation room. Maybe it was a test. He barely trusted his voice, inside his head he heard the sound of gulls bounding back and forth across his skull. "Did I faint?" he asked. _Oh, god, it was true. _"I'm—I'm so embarrassed," he continued. Color dashed across the bridge of his nose, pooling under his eyes.

"Have you had these spells before?" Dr. Rhodes repeated.

Lassiter climbed to his feet, his limbs creaking a little. How long had he been under? "Ever since— the beach," he recalled.

Dr. Rhodes asked him a question, and when he didn't respond, she put her hands on both his arms, which he thought seemed a little unprofessional. "Sorry?" he asked back.

"Was this one of the dreams you've had?" she repeated, concerned.

He thought. "No. I mean— I haven't— I didn't see these images before." She backed from him; he saw in her hazel eyes that she wondered if he was stable enough to stand on his own two feet. Dr. Rhodes picked up her pad and pen and scrawled some notes, all the while looking up every now and then. She was asking him to describe the images he had seen; he was flustered. It wasn't a complete memory; it hadn't made much sense. _Cut a piece of skin from me_. He pressed his palm against his stomach. When he hesitated, she told him calmly to take his time. As he gathered up the pieces, he wondered what was going through her head. Was she thinking that he needed the extra time to ad lib something? Did she think he was a liar? _And a cheat in prison? _Lassiter shivered. He imagined her notes as turned over to Vick; lying S.O.B., faked a fainting spell; can't be trusted. Crazy; overly imaginative. Obviously guilty. Guilty of murder. Guilty of insanity. Guilty of being a bad head detective. Guilty of being a bad role model. Cries at whims. He sneered at himself.

He told her, when prompted, the truncated images and sounds. A laugh, sea gulls, pain across his stomach. Feeling paralyzed. _Oh, no._ As soon as the words were said aloud and were hanging in the room, he felt the air leave him. Lassiter caught himself, and managed to sit back down, but he felt ill. Dr. Rhodes wore her shock in all the lines in her face that Lassiter hadn't noticed were there before.

"Fainting ever since the beach," she muttered, underlining some of her written words.

"I'm sor—sorry," Lassiter mumbled. "I'm not like this all time." He heard himself choke on a half sob. "I mean, I never used to be like this." He breathed deeply.

Lassiter managed to compose himself enough to appear levelheaded, which allowed Dr. Rhodes to ask a few more questions, which he answered to the best of his ability. Satisfied that he seemed stable, she stood up and shook his hand. He saw her to the door.

Once outside, she called the station. "Please see that my call is directed to Chief Karen Vick," Dr. Rhodes told the person on the line firmly.

Lassiter, leaning against his door, could hear her muted words. He held his breath, listening.

"Yes, the session just ended. I will need to speak with you immediately," Dr. Rhodes said, apparently speaking to Vick. "If I come down now, can you spare a half an hour?" Dr. Rhodes' voice thinned out as she walked down the hallway. Lassiter couldn't make out anything else she was saying, damning or otherwise.

He stepped away from the door, a furious blush creeping over his face. He didn't want to think about anything that had happened. Carlton went to his bedroom and retrieved the journal. He stared at it, getting that same feeling as earlier. Maybe it could wait until after he took a shower. Before he went into the bathroom, he dragged his arm chair to his front door.

* * *

The only sounds Shawn heard as he picked his way down the long alley, which was littered with trash and smelled as if the whole tunnel was used as a toilet, was an unfamiliar song drifting down from a radio somewhere up above, perhaps sitting on someone's kitchen counter. Halfway in, the alley narrowed into the tip of a cone; Shawn took a few long strides and continued at its constricted scope. He slipped on something slimy but managed to keep his balance. The volume was low, but he heard some snippets.

#

_". . . What mistake could I have made?_

_I'm a slave serving time _

_for a life that I've forgotten_

_#_

_"I'm a slave of karma_

_Spin the wheel _

_and I'm a king reborn_

_Yeah, I'm a slave to karma_

_I'm coming back_

_Hey, I'll be coming back_

_But for the last time_

_#_

_"Today I'm a king on the wheel,_

_Still a slave to the wheel, _

_but this time around I"m smiling_

_Keep me cautious, keep me safe . . ."_

#

The song was growing fainter the further Shawn tramped into the alley. Something broke under his shoe, then another couple steps sent him over half crumpled material the squished and smelled like rotted fruit.

#

_". . . Stand in the middle and you won't get dizzy_

_Stand in the middle and you won't fall down_

_If you stand in the middle, you can keep your balance_

_Stand in the middle and the wheel spins round and round. . . ."_

_#_

Shawn squinted ahead; trying to think this through. He didn't really have a plan as to what he was going to do if he actually found the company on Lassie's receipt. When he'd asked for directions, had he seemed too eager that Bernise Locksmith Company might have a real location? Was it just that the song was having an eerie effect on his subconscious; though he'd never heard it before? He tried to hum some Sister Hazel, but the strange mid-Eastern industrial sounds of the song above him pushed through his head and he listened, if only to distract himself for a few seconds longer.

_#_

_". . . Yeah, I'm a slave to karma_

_I'm coming back_

_Hey, I'll be coming back_

_But for the last time. . . ."_

_#_

_"Anyone who claims _

_that they know the answers_

_Is coming back again_

_#_

_"Who"s at the center of the wheel?_

_The inventor of the wheel?_

_Or another spinning servant?"_

_#_

The alley was getting darker, the space more a dark brown mud color than a night blackness, but still. He peered overhead and saw that the two buildings were pressed closer together at the top, as if leaning toward each other to weather a storm. The air was also more damp and putrid. Shawn held his breath for a while and then breathed only through his mouth; he could still taste the ripe garbage air. He dug in his pocket for the address the kid on the bike had given him and scrutinized it, before shrugging. He looked ahead; the alley's tread seemed to last; was it just a dead end? Shawn took a few more steps, hurtling over a couple wet cardboard boxes that were half piled on top of each other with a grunt. Was there light at the end of this tunnel? According to the scrawny twelve year old with the ragged baseball cap, this alley was the best way to get Ocean Heights, a small strip in back of some reconstituted industrial buildings where there were local businesses, dry cleaners, locksmiths, an antique shop, a smoke shop, even some mom & pop diner. Shawn wondered if the advice about this shortcut had been dubious; _who_ would really walk down this alley if there was a more direct, albeit, longer way? Shawn sighed, and stopped. Maybe he should go back. The alley stank; besides, its silence settled around him with unease. The radio was no longer playing; Shawn couldn't here any other sounds, not from any of the dingy apartments that may be above, or even from the street he had left, it seemed, ages ago.

He thought about his misadventures at Santa Barbara General. If this lead didn't pan out, he'd have nothing to offer Lassie later on. Shawn frowned and continued to walk forward, keeping his head low. Glass crunched under his sneaker. Light even more scarce; he squinted, wishing he could make out through all the crap up ahead if the alleyway actually opened onto a back street. _What if it had been a mistake?_ Shawn thought suddenly, hearing a bit of the strange song in his head. What if the kid had been mistaken, had told him the wrong way to go? He wasn't usually claustrophobic, but something didn't feel right. Maybe if he could get back, he could find someone else to ask. Shawn rolled his eyes at himself. He knew he shouldn't think with that phrasing, _Maybe if_. _Geez, Shawn,_ he chided himself, _Lassie's paranoia is making you paranoid. _Though, it wasn't all blind paranoia. Making up his mind to go back, Shawn stopped. He was carefully turning around—he had stepped over so much broken junk that he didn't want to risk going down face first—when the hand clamped around his left arm, just above his elbow, locking his arm straight out behind him. Shawn yelped, his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't rotate his shoulder so he could face the person holding him. The hand was large with thick fingers; the grip was crushing. Shawn yelped again with pain, scraping his free hand against the wall in search of a handhold.

"Hey!" Shawn yelled, his voice laced with fear. "Hey! Let go of me!" He tried to pull himself from the viselike grip. His arm didn't move.

The person was silent, strong too— with a sharp tug Shawn was inched backwards, his sneakers scraping across the slimy film of trash. Shawn tugged back, jerking his arm in the person's— Shawn assumed it was a man, because he couldn't imagine what woman would have such meaty fingers— grasp. His arm stung, not only where the hand crushed, but in his shoulder blade and elbow too. Shawn tried a large stride forward, hoping break the hold. There was another hard tug, and Shawn slid backwards. He gritted his teeth, breathing hard.

"Please! Let go!" Shawn pleaded, his voice thick with dread. He pulled forward but the grip tightened over his bare skin. Shawn couldn't believe how scared he was all of a sudden. It was getting hard to focus; his vision was sliding a little towards the dark.

"NO!" Shawn yelled suddenly. He was soaked with sweat; his fight or flight reaction was kicking in. He wrenched forward; taking a stumble towards the garbage mushed in front of him. He was rewarded, though his left shoulder twinged badly, with sliding his held arm a little from the grasp of the man. _It must be because of the sweat,_ Shawn thought wildly, not allowing himself to celebrate the small victory. _I have to get away._ His attacker still hadn't spoken; he jerked Shawn backwards again, clutching Shawn's arm fiercely. The man dug his short fingernails into Shawn's arm. Shawn bent his knees, hoping to wedge himself in place. He pulled against his attacker, and hoping to befuddle the man, this time shrieked his high pitched scream, and shook his straightened arm until he felt the fingers slide below his elbow. Even though it hurt like hell, Shawn bent his elbow and risked a dangerous step backwards to kick at his attacker. He wasn't sure where he'd hit, but man grunted with an _oof_, and the fingers loosened around Shawn's arm. Shawn yanked himself free and tore off down the alley, nearly toppling over several times. Adrenaline carried him to the end of the alley, which did open up to a back street, and was vacant and littered with browned newspapers.

At the end, Shawn risked a look backwards, though he thought stupidly that this was how kids were killed in slasher movies. Shawn's heart pounded violently, his breath coming out in harsh huffs. He was shaking all over. He couldn't see down the alley where he had been; he wasn't certain if the dark shapes in the shadows were stationary or in motion. He picked the direction at random, hoping he would get back into a space with lots of people. Shawn ran. He was lightheaded, his lips vibrating as if he'd eaten something that he hadn't realized he was allergic to. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, then ran a hand across his mouth.

_Oh. My. God. What. Just. Happened? _ Shawn tried to think it through, but it was too fresh. He flexed his right hand, the one he'd scraped against the wall and absently noticed his knuckles were cut up to hell, and throbbing, too. Shawn fumbled with the cell phone in his pocket but once it was in his hands he stared at it dumbly, not knowing who to call. Names and faces flashed before him, but he couldn't piece together a story that would make any sense to anyone. The only one he could call who would understand was Lassiter— but calling him would do Shawn no good. He couldn't call his father, definitely not, and Jules— what would he say? _Someone grabbed me in an alley? Why was I in the alley? Errr. _And what about Gus? He recalled Gus's reaction to the photograph; he frowned and gritted his teeth. _Okay, I just have to calm down._ _Think, think._ Shawn picked up his pace, he had a strong desire to wash the sweat off his face. He bit his lip, ignoring the contusion on his left arm. He didn't want to know what it looked like just yet. Shawn wandered, the place where he'd parked his motorcycle blinking somewhere in the back of his mind. He carried his phone, green plastic square, pressed into his palm, limply at his side, becoming aware he was still wearing his backpack. He saw people, blissfully ignorant, smiling, laughing, chattering away, and went towards them, milling about in the crowd. Brightly adorned storefronts appeared, an ice cream parlor, and cafes with outdoor seating, a radio shop advertising free cell phone charms with every purchase, a book nook with college texts in the window. Though he could recognize what they were, they barely registered in Shawn's state of mind.

Shawn wandered inside a dimly lit cafe and in a daze, went into the bathroom. At the sink, Shawn ran cool water over his face and down his neck. He let some coppery water splash into his mouth. When he looked up, he was startled at his own appearance. His skin was ashy; he gasped. Shawn turned so could examine his left arm. Red-purple, a partial handprint climbed up his arm, starting at his elbow. Shawn ran his fingers over the impression of thick fingers; the bruise made him feel sick. He stared at it with a dour expression, and then scrubbed the peeling skin from his right hand with soap and water. Shawn stared at his phone, which he'd set on the counter, still wondering if he should call in a reinforcement. The bruise looked so angry; when Shawn flexed his arm, his shoulder panged. He winced. It hurt, but Shawn realized it hadn't been dislocated, otherwise, he probably wouldn't have been able to get away because the pain would have made him pass out. He shivered, going over that last thought slowly— _I wouldn't have been had to get away if—_ He sighed resignedly and picked up his phone.

_* * *_

"Where are you, Shawn?" Gus demanded after Shawn called and asked for a ride. Shawn's voice was shaky, which perturbed Gus.

"I'm on the Westside," Shawn answered. He had made himself go sit at a table in the cafe, and had ordered a sandwich and a glass of water. Though it sat in front of him, untouched.

"Isn't that near SBCC?" he huffed. "I thought you said you weren't going to Leadbetter Beach."

"I didn't go. I'm not there. I'm at this cafe, uh." Shawn looked at the name on the menu, and tried to pronounce it. "El Trinciante."

Gus repeated it. "Is that Spanish?"

"No," Shawn mumbled.

"How did you get there?"

"I rode my bike from Upper State Street, you know, after I checked the—" Shawn glanced around, trying to be discreet. "The thing at the hospital." He told Gus that he'd spoken to a woman at the information desk on his way out, and she'd sent him across the street to a tourist station. The tourist station directed him to local hardware stores and locksmiths, which Shawn checked out. One employee or owner in one of the hardware stores mentioned that the name Bernise sounded kind of familiar; Shawn might want to check just off of Highway 101 and Cliff Drive, though he also told Shawn that that neighborhood was by no means affluent. The man had winked and offered up a wry look. Shawn headed down here, in search of the mysterious locksmith company.

"So, I don't get it," Gus cut in, "is your bike broken down?"

_No, but I don't know if I'm stable enough to drive it,_ Shawn thought weakly. Great, he couldn't tell that to Gus. He sighed and frowned at the bruise, which was garish even in the muted lighting.

"Shawn?" Gus prompted.

"Um. No, it's not broken, not that I know of anyway." When Shawn didn't elaborate, Gus said he was going to hang up. "Wait!" Shawn cried out, and then bit his lip. He flushed; his voice was much too high pitched for a public setting. He stretched out his injured arm, bracing himself for the inevitable jarring in his shoulder. The pain was less than it had been earlier, which was good. Shawn dropped his head and in a low voice told Gus that he was still shaken up. Then he added that he couldn't even eat the chicken parm he'd ordered.

"None of it?" Gus said, getting more from this fact than his friend telling him he was shaken up. Shawn never turned away food. He got up from his desk, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. He patted his pockets for his car keys. "Shawn, what's going on?"

"I— look, can you just make up your mind? If you're not going to come, just hang up now." Gingerly, Shawn bent his left arm towards his eyes, wiping away some wetness with the back of his hand. He didn't want to give out details right now. Gus was hesitating on the line. "Look," Shawn barked angrily, "just forget it. I musta dialed your number by accident." With a frown, he hit the "end call" button and set the phone on the table next to his plate. He sighed sadly. Part of him wanted Gus to call back and demand Shawn's apology. Part of him wanted Gus to call back just so he could hang up on his friend again. He sneered, and looked to his plate. If he was going to ride his bike back to Santa Barbara, he was going to need some strength. Shawn bit into the chicken sandwich and chewed, though it had no taste. His phone rang as he chewed the second rubbery bite. He let it ring until he swallowed the soggy mouthful.

"Gus, I can't really talk right now," Shawn lied dully. "I'm on the road, headed back—"

"Then pull over," Gus demanded, cutting him off. Shawn heard road sounds, including someone laying on the horn. When Gus cursed, Shawn raised an eyebrow. Gus didn't usually use language like that. He took a sip of water. "Shawn?" Gus's voice rose angrily.

"Okay, fine," Shawn said with an eye roll. "I'm still at the cafe."

"Stay put," Gus spat. He hung up. Shawn frowned, and put the phone down. Well, if Gus was going to pick him up— the sandwich with two bites missing stared back at him. "Damn," he said softly. He chewed another tasteless bite slowly. He managed a little less than half, before pushing it away. He propped his bruised arm on the circular table, even though it ached to bend his elbow, and sipped his water. It was only a few steps up from the water in the bathroom, but Shawn tried not to mind. Gus was going to kill him. Hell, Lassie was going to kill him. He sighed. Shawn planned to tell both of them that it was an "on-the-job" hazard. It didn't even hurt; he shifted his arm a little and_ oh, boy_. _Okay, so it still hurt._ Maybe Lassiter wouldn't even notice; after all, he might be having a busy day. Shawn frowned; he hoped that Lassiter's stalkers were keeping their distance. Shawn didn't allow himself to think any further about them. He slipped his phone in his the pocket of his jeans, and rested his head forward on his right arm.

When looked up, the plate was gone and there was a bill on the table in its place. Had he fallen asleep? He hadn't heard anyone stop by; sighing, he got out his wallet. He was lying out the bills when Gus arrived. Shawn had no time to move his left arm before Gus's gaze alighted on it.

"Shawn!" Gus breathed, alarmed. His anger melted.

Shawn shifted uncomfortably and got up. "I don't want to talk about it here, okay," Shawn said softly, swinging the backpack across his shoulder.

Gus resisted the urge to ask Shawn what had happened until after he had taken Shawn to get his bike, and helped him load it into the back. Once they were in the car, Gus told him to spill.

Shawn explained slowly, in a reedy tone. Shawn insisted, however, that even though he'd been scared at the time, the incident wasn't a big deal. He'd gotten away; it was probably just a mistake anyway. "Probably some old wino who wanted me to go buy him some liquor— who happened to be deaf, so he thought that if he could just get his message out there—" Shawn's train of thought trailed off. He knew he could deny it all he wanted, but he'd been freaking out like crazy. He could tell himself that it was okay because he hadn't been badly harmed, that it was all okay because he'd been able to run away— but Gus saw through it all.

Gus blurted out, "Give me one good reason not to drive you to the police station right now, Shawn."

"Gus, we can't. No police."

"Shawn, you were almost abducted," Gus said seriously with wide eyes.

Shawn ran a hand across his face. "Maybe. Maybe not." But his voice broke. "What if they were just trying to scare me?"

Gus raised his eyebrows. "And did they scare you?"

"Hell, yeah," Shawn muttered, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat. "But Gus, I mean— what if they were trying to scare me off?"

"Shawn, no."

"Scare me off from helping Lassiter? Come on, Gus. Don't you get how serious this is?"

Gus bit his cheek to stop a yell of frustration. "Don't _you_?" he growled. "Look at your arm, genius." He scowled. "How are you going to explain that to your father?"

Shawn punched Gus in the arm. "Don't even mention that," he snarled. "You are _not_ going to him."

"He's going to find out one way or another, Shawn." Gus scrutinized Shawn's face. "Does he even know the kind of danger you've been putting yourself into help Lassiter?" His eyebrows shot up.

"Need to know basis, Gus. Right now, he doesn't need to know anything." _Besides, the danger hadn't been so real . . . until now. _

Gus humphed, and started the car. They drove in silence for some time, Shawn staring out the window, watching the scenery blur. He thought about the way the man had held his arm, and how powerless he felt when his attacker inched him backwards. Absently, he pressed his right hand across the bruise on his left arm. Gus glanced his way. He was furious; but he didn't know how to express it. Finally he edged, "Shawn, I'm worried about you."

Shawn continued to look out the window.

"If something happens to you—" Gus replayed what Shawn had told him with shock. Yes, Shawn would go down a dark alley alone, but, god, the bruise. Gus could see the stark maroon abrasion through Shawn's fingers. "Please, will you consider not investigating this anymore?" Gus asked sincerely, without any accusations.

"I can't," Shawn muttered. "I can't consider it." He looked towards Gus and sighed. The bruise pulsed, and Shawn almost thought to ask Gus if he had any painkillers lying around. "Gus, wouldn't you be curious, if someone tried to abduct you, what they wanted with you?"

Gus frowned. "Um, no. I'd be grateful that I managed to scrape my way out of disaster."

"I guess," Shawn mumbled. "I mean, I am." He took a deep breath. "Gus, you do know that if it was you in this kind of trouble I wouldn't stop until I figured out what was going on, right? Or if it were Jules?"

Gus tried to understand. "Well, yeah. But Shawn, Lassiter's going to be pissed. He told us we should stay out it."

Shawn shook his head. "He doesn't know how to ask for help. So, he'll be pissed. How's he going to stop me? I like to help people— I'm pretty good at it, right?" Shawn winked. "You are too, you know."

Gus mumbled a yeah and then a whatever, but allowed a small smile.

"Besides, it's a dangerous job, but—"

Gus rolled his eyes. "Spare me the 'it's an on-the-job hazard' speech, Shawn." He shivered a little. He noticed Shawn was still clutching at his arm. "Are you in pain?"

"Huh? Nah, it's just a scratch."

"Glove box," Gus said, ignoring him.

Shawn popped the glove box open, happy to get his hands on a bottle of aspirin. He counted out three, replaced the cap and closed the glove box. He popped the pills on his tongue and then rifled through his backpack for the bottle of water he'd brought. "Thanks, dude," Shawn mumbled, leaning his head against the door.

Gus shook his head. "Next time" —he winced— "call me right away, okay?"

Shawn shrugged. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have to get groceries."

"For Lassiter?" Gus asked.

"Yeah. Is that okay? Then you can drop me and the Norton off at Lassie's."

Gus pursed his lips. "Will you be okay drive by then?"

"Yeah," Shawn muttered. He offered a thin smile.

* * *

While he showered, he tried to let his mind go blank. He stood under the water until it ran cold, then climbed out, toweled off, and put the clothes he'd dressed in earlier back on. With purpose, Lassiter walked to the living room where he'd left the journal, and opened it. He took a moment to rest his hand on the first blank page as a way of centering himself.

The first thing he wrote regarded the visit from the psychologist and what he had experienced during her visit. As he wrote, he told himself that he shouldn't be surprised that he'd fainted; it seemed that every time he was in some social situation, he was overwhelmed and smacked with a nasty memory. He grimaced, mortified that he'd been lying on the floor while the psychologist, essentially a complete stranger, had been trying to bring him around. God, he was an utter mess lately. Hadn't he been so normal before . . . before all this?

Lassiter related what he remembered when he woke up, then scrawled out the memory that had most recently returned, vividly cruel. He set the pen in the journal and unbuttoned his dress shirt.

The bandage was still pressed across his stomach. He pushed his fingers under the gauze and pulled it back, exposing the cut that was on the heal, scabbing the browned color of dried blood. He ran his fingers across the scab, and swallowed hard. Had he really just sat still for this? Not wincing, not crying out?

He tossed the gauze in the trash and buttoned up his shirt. He grabbed the note off of the fridge and tucked it into the journal, then sat down and continued to write.

* * *

It was after seven pm when Shawn got back. Gus had taken him to dinner and Shawn had tried to eat up for Gus's benefit, but as earlier, the food didn't have much taste. As he stood outside of Lassiter's door with a box of groceries, Shawn remembered Lassie's warning to be careful. He had retorted flippantly when Lassie thought something could happen to him if he went snooping. Well, he hadn't expected this. Since he was wearing short sleeves, he doubted Lassie would miss the mark on his arm. It had been red for a long time but the indentation of the person's fingers were starting to bruise a bluish purple. He'd have to make sure to wear a jacket until the mark faded so as not to alarm his father, an anyone else at the police department. He was kind of hoping Lassiter would be too out of it to notice.

Shawn knocked on the door, and then identified himself. He heard the curious scraping of a large piece of furniture being dragged across the floor, then the door opened.

When Lassiter opened the door, Shawn was taken aback at how pale he looked. He took the groceries to the counter in the kitchen. Mechanically, Lassiter started putting things away. He hadn't yet said a word. Shawn went to the coffee table, where he noticed the journal. He glanced over his shoulder, but Lassiter still had his back to him. Shawn grabbed the journal and opened it to the first page. Sinking into the arm chair, Shawn opened the journal and read the account with the psychologist.

_We were talking, everything was fine, civil and then I just— I got this sense that I was being watched,_ Lassiter had written. _It was hard to breathe, and I couldn't make the feeling pass. I told Dr. Rhodes about the images I saw when I blacked out in the station . . . The dream/ memory I got at the station when I was being interrogated was a fragment. Right before the room got fuzzy, I think Samuelson had asked me if I could be a killer but just not remember it. It was just a routine question; I don't know why I had the reaction I did. Could I be guilty??? I know it looks that way but I just . . . feel in my gut that I couldn't have. Wouldn't have committed murder. I saw this gray blob and I reached out to touch it . . . and it turned red, it was all congealed like gelatin. I can't believe I was really unconscious for ten minutes. It was really hard to wake up. _

_Anyway, Dr. Rhodes was writing something down and then, I'm not so clear what happened. Felt I was moving in slow motion, the smallest sounds in the room were abruptly earsplitting. I saw black tar sliding down the walls, then I was curled up under this rushing of water. I saw white, then heard the woman's laugh, the same one who has been haunting me in my memories and has been appearing in person all over— at the station, outside my apartment. I heard seagulls screeching, and then another memory came back. I guess it's no wonder really why I passed out._

Shawn frowned, but continued to read.

_I need to tell this one first or the other one won't make as much sense, ha, ha. I got this memory this morning after I woke up, before I found the note on my fridge. I was sitting very still, my eyes open; nondescript, unfamiliar. Don't know where I was. Then the air smelled like vanilla cologne. There was something in my mouth but I didn't realize it until the fingers pulled it out. Gagged? It was the girl from the station, the same one hanging out across the street, the one Spencer chased. She pretended to kiss me in the station and I was pretty startled by it. She removed the cloth from my mouth and she kissed me. I tried to move my hands but they seemed fused together. Bound hands?? She offered a teasing closed mouth smile. Round dark brown eyes. Her dark hair tickling my cheek. _

_I heard a male voice while she was kissing me. "What are you doing?" He seemed angry with the girl/ woman. She said, "Ah, let me have some fun with him, won't you?" Like it was all some kind of game to her. The guy/ man told her she should gag me again, but she told him that "No one was around." I couldn't move— when I thought about it again after Spencer left today, I realized that it was not because I was tied up. A male voice had told me , "Sit here. Stay here." I did— like I was paralyzed. I physically couldn't move, not that I tried to, but . . . _

Shawn felt chilled. Lassiter remembered being paralyzed, completely unable to move . . . because someone had told him not to? What could possibly cause that to occur? The next paragraph told of the memory that came to Lassiter during his session.

_I remembered how I got the cut across my stomach. I think this occurred shortly after the woman told the man that no one was around. _

_"See, I prove to you," she told the man. I don't know where she got it but she was holding up this three inch blade in front of my eyes. I think I was trying to say something but I couldn't get any sound out. She pushed up my shirt, looked me in the eyes and said very clearly,"Shhh, _mi caro_. Do not say a word." I just looked back and then I felt pain. She drew the knife across my stomach, I felt the cut opening and then it felt wet. It hurt, but I didn't say anything. The woman touched the wound and I noticed that her fingertips were dabbed with red. My blood. After that she dropped the shirt and sat back down next to me, snuggling up to me. "See?" she said to the man, whose face I don't know if I saw. She was proud of herself. _

_The man was harsh with her. He said, "It was unnecessary." I think he said her first name, but I can't get it to come to me. He put the cloth back into my mouth. _

Shawn was startled. Not only that Lassiter remembered such clear details, but the level of sheer cruelty exhibited. He wondered again what could possibly make anyone not be able to physically move if instructed not to. Under hypnosis? Drugged? He ran a hand threw his hair. Maybe they could make more sense of this when the results came back on that glass.

_I still can't figure out how I ended up wearing those clothes that they found me on the beach. When I went to bed in my apartment I had on shorts and an SBPD t-shirt . . . so how did I end up in black jeans and a red t-shirt. I wasn't wearing shoes . . . of course, I didn't wear shoes to bed. . . ._

Hmm. That was puzzling. No one had, as of yet, found the SBPD t-shirt Lassiter claimed he went to sleep in.

"Receipt and change," Lassiter said dully, standing at Shawn's left side, holding out his palm. Shawn jumped, and nearly dropped the journal. He looked up at Lassiter, whose eyes seemed flat.

"Uh, right." Shawn fumbled for his wallet, and dumped out the a five dollar bill, a couple singles and about 80 or 90 cents in change. While he was gathering it together, Lassiter noticed the angry bruise on his left arm. Anger surged through him and he grabbed Spencer's wrist. The change spilled out of Shawn's hands.

"What the hell is this?" Lassiter demanded, not letting go of Shawn's arm. Shawn struggled, knowing he was at a disadvantage because he was seated.

"Let go!" Shawn dropped the rest of the cash onto the floor and jumped to his feet. He wrenched his arm from Lassiter's grasp, much in the way he was finally able to do so this afternoon. He cradled his arm to his side for a moment while Lassiter gave him with a look of barely contained fury. "It's— not as bad as it looks," Shawn said lamely.

The image of Spencer getting pulled into a van came back to Lassiter. "Were you attacked?" he demanded.

"No," Shawn sighed. "I was just—" Shawn watched Lassiter's eyes work up to their usual pitch of anger and annoyance, as whenever he thought Shawn was interfering with an important case. "I was following a supposed lead, okay?" Shawn sighed again. "I was in this alley. This kid told me that if I just went down that alley, that it would cut across to Ocean Heights, and I could find the Bernise Offices." Shawn winced, realizing how it sounded now that he was saying it out loud. It sounded like a set up.

"Spencer, is that a handprint?" Lassiter barked suddenly, his eyes wide.

"Um, no, it's—"

"Don't tell me it's not, I can see it with my own eyes."

Shawn sighed. "Look, I was just shaken up. I don't think—" Lassiter's blue eyes were still wide with anger. He swallowed. "Yes, it's a handprint. Yes, I was attacked. Some guy grabbed my arm while I was in the alley." Lassiter listened with growing consternation. "I yelled for him to let go of me, but he didn't speak. Or let go of me." Shawn bunched his hands into fists to ward off their shaking. "He— he was trying to drag me backwards."

"Oh, god," Lassiter hissed. He shook his head slowly. "Spencer—"

Shawn ran a hand through his hair, noticing that it shook a little. "It just looks bad because I was fighting him. He had my arm behind me, so I couldn't turn around and see what he looked like." Shawn told him how he'd managed to get free. "I just ran. He didn't come after me."

"You can't do this," Lassiter said firmly. "You were lucky this time— but what if—"

"Shut up," Shawn huffed, annoyed. "I'm fine." He didn't want his thoughts straying to that scary place again. _What if he hadn't been able to get away? What if he'd been abducted?_ "It's a risk— I'm willing to take to figure out what's really going on here." He wasn't fooling Lassiter with his quivering voice, though. "Look, I just looked through some of that," Shawn told him, changing the subject when he pointed to the journal. Shawn noticed the unpleasant color on Lassiter's cheeks. "You need a line on the outside. This is scary shit, compelling too." Shawn pointed to the journal again.

"It's— it's true," Lassiter said softly. "What I remember. Even the really twisted dreams." He gave Shawn a skewered look. "Your father will kill me if anything happens to you."

Shawn waved a dismissing hand. "My dad doesn't have to know about this. I'd have to fake promise him that I'd stop helping you."

"Don't joke about it," Lassiter snapped. He put a hand to his forehead; there was a sudden buzzing against his skull.

"I wasn't. I know it's—" Shawn replied. He shifted his weight. "So what if—" He ran his right hand across the handprint bruise. "I didn't find them, by the way," Shawn said sheepishly. "The Bernise Company. The so-called clue sent me down that alley . . . which was supposed to take me to another building."

Lassiter bit his lip, but said anyway, "I warned you."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I know, Lassie, you said to be careful—"

"No," Lassiter snapped. "Not just today." He clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. "Spencer, for whatever reasons that don't make sense to me, you believe what I told you." He looked at Spencer, and the younger man nodded. "You believe that I was—taken. You believe that I'm innocent of this murder—even though I can't remember what happened."

"Yeah," Shawn drew out, wondering where Lassiter was going with this train of thought.

Lassiter sighed, the dark circles under his eyes seeming suddenly prominent. "Spencer—" He was so tired, he didn't want to explain it all again. He felt like he was having deja vu to yesterday's conversation. He raised a hand to to his face.

Shawn gasped, realizing what Lassie was thinking. "Are you thinking they're going to try to kidnap me too?"

Lassiter frowned. "Weren't you worried that that was a possibility today when you were grabbed in the alley?"

Shawn was frozen. "Maybe," he admitted softly. "But why?"

"Why is the question of the hour," Lassiter muttered bitterly. "I don't know why they took me, Spencer. _Why_ would they?" Lassiter fumbled. "I've made enemies over the years, I'm sure. But this . . . everything . . . it's very personal." He frowned. "And because you've gotten yourself involved . . ."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to pretend like I don't know you're in trouble?"

Lassiter fidgeted. "Uh . . . maybe it would be better for you . . ." Lassiter's voice trailed off, but he still looked up with a desperate hope that Shawn would stick around. But then he shook it away. "How did you manage those groceries with just your bike?" he asked suddenly.

"I went with Gus. He picked me up after—" Shawn clamped his lips shut.

Lassiter's eyes shot wide open. "Guster's already seen that?"

"Well. Kind of," Shawn admitted.

Lassiter frowned. "You should have called me, Spencer."

"For what? To have you freak out even more and on top of that, not be able to do anything about it?"

Lassiter scowled angrily. "If he held you like that— applied that much pressure— to leave such a mark—" _Then he wasn't planning on letting go of you._

"But I'm fine," Shawn insisted. He touched his arm; the bruise was tender to even the lightest touch.

Lassiter muttered under his breath. He was horrified to learn that Spencer had been that close to being abducted. He was pissed that the incident didn't seem to bother the kid more. Shouldn't Spencer have called, hysterical, and said that he had couldn't help Lassiter anymore because he'd almost been kidnapped? Lassiter looked Spencer over; he suspected that if Guster had already seen the mark on Shawn's arm, he'd already reamed Spencer out. Yet here Spencer was, relating the story as if he were nothing more than a scrape up with a local bully. Like it was nothing to worry about it. He sighed and shook his head. He was scared for Spencer's safety; this was the first time they had gone after anyone other than himself; except for the photograph. But Spencer had been physically attacked; Lassiter froze. Why would they try to kidnap Spencer? Could it be because he was getting his memory back? Or was Spencer getting too close to something? Maybe it wasn't an abduction; maybe they had just been trying scare Shawn. Maybe it had been some nasty coincidence; it wasn't them. Maybe it was just an attempted mugging. Lassiter smiled grimly to himself. _Yeah, right. _


	12. Chapter 11: The Masks The Monsters Wear

**Chapter Eleven: The Masks The Monsters Wear To Feed Upon Their Prey**

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Disclaimer: I do not own references to _Friday the 13th_. Or any references to Google or Firefox. Or Honey Bunches of Oats.

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* * *

Vick was able to meet with Dr. Rhodes around 11:45 am on August 10. Vick knew that while Dr. Rhodes could not divulge all the details of the session, she could at least offer Vick a clearer picture of Lassiter's situation and if her suspended detective could stand an actual interrogation.

"I appreciate you taking the time to see me on such short notice, Chief Vick," Dr. Rhodes stated formally after they'd shook hands.

"It's no trouble," Karen said, gesturing her guest to take a seat. She herself sat down behind her desk. "What were your findings, Dr. Rhodes?"

Dr. Rhodes outlined the session for her, keeping Lassiter's confidentiality. "The session was progressing well until detective Lassiter became agitated. I am unclear as to what brought this state on, but he did faint."

"He fainted?" Vick repeated, stunned. "During the session?"

Dr. Rhodes nodded.

Vick raised an eyebrow. "What triggered it?"

"He had just told me that he was experiencing vivid dreams. I watched him and something shifted in his eyes. He looked terrified, as if he'd said too much."

Vick let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "What do you suspect?"

"Without divulging too much of our session, Chief Vick, my immediate observation would be that your detective acts the way of a person who has been threatened and drugged. Obviously, I observed that he is exhibiting symptoms of post traumatic stress—" She held up her hand to stop Vick, who wanted to interrupt. "With all due respect, have you really listened to him when he tells you that he believes he was kidnapped?"

Vick pursed her lips, not sure she understood. All she knew for certain that Carlton had been missing for 36 hours. She knew the facts; though most of the facts only added up to more blank space.

When Vick didn't speak, Dr. Rhodes continued. "I think that I will have to side with Mr. Jeremy Oswley— I believe your detective experienced a trauma. Its dreams, or whatever the correct terminology may be, perhaps, memories, are putting a terrible strain on him, both physically and emotionally. His body reacts to the stress by fainting, and his images he sees—" She broke off at Vick's half blank face. "Chief Vick, I believe the first step is that you need to admit that Detective Lassiter was kidnapped, which is traumatic enough, and that something terrible occurred while he was in the hands of his abductors."

"Something terrible," Vick repeated softly. She looked the psychologist in the eyes. "Dr. Rhodes, what if this, what you speak of, was murder?"

Dr. Rhodes sighed patiently. "That is the second step," she said. Vick stared back quizzically. "You need to ask yourself, seriously now, if you truly believe your detective is not only capable of this crime, but what the reasons behind it might be— if you think him guilty."

"You— don't?" Vick asked her, stunned.

Dr. Rhodes offered a sympathetic but sideways glance. "Though impartial, if you would like my professional opinion, Chief Vick, I believe that Lassiter is a victim, not a criminal."

"But, in your professional opinion, is he fit for questioning?"

"I would say no. Though if you must go ahead with your investigation, I would advise the questioning to take place in his apartment, with both myself and his lawyer present."

After Dr. Rhodes left Vick's office, she headed straight for the exit, but lingered once outside. She reached for a business card in a pocket of her purse and scanned it while she dialed her cell phone.

The phone rang three times before a slightly gruff voice answered. "Oswley, Mauer and Barnes, Oswley speaking." Dr. Rhodes was a little surprised that there wasn't a secretary to answer the calls.

"Hello, Mr. Oswley, this is Dr. Ann Rhodes speaking," she said. "I believe we have the interests of a mutual client at heart." It was a code, which Oswley picked upon immediately. He hadn't been told the name of the psychoanalyst but had managed to pass along a message to her by way of sealed envelope.

"Ah, yes," Oswley said. "Carlton Lassiter."

"That's correct," she affirmed.

"Can you talk?" he asked her.

"I'm just leaving the Santa Barbara Police Department."

"So, that means you likely just spoke to Vick?"

"That's right." Dr. Rhodes glanced around to see if there might be any stray officers around who might overhear her. She didn't see any, but made her way through the parking lot to her car anyway. "You were right," she continued, unlocking her car. She got in and sat in the driver's seat with the windows rolled up. "She's very much in denial."

Oswley made a sound that was part bark and part laugh. "Ha, I knew it wasn't just me." He sniffled. "Were you able to attain a sample?"

Dr. Rhodes fingered the cool vile in her purse. What she had done any police, court or lawyer— except this one— would label as unethical, she was certain. But these were desperate times. Not only the man's reputation was in jeopardy, but possibly his life as well. "Yes. While he spoke to me, his behavior changed from normal to abnormal. He lost consciousness for a good five minutes, though if he was sleeping, it wasn't dreamless."

Oswley slapped a hard flat surface in front of him and cursed. "It really makes you wonder, doesn't it, Dr. Rhodes, what the hell is going through the minds of his so-called police friends and colleagues?"

Dr. Rhodes thought back to her conversation with Vick, and sighed. "I don't know why, but it's almost as if she wants him to be guilty. As if his abduction story involved little green men and x-ray vision. Well, perhaps that's a little beyond a professional opinion, and by the way, completely off the record." Even though she was in her car, she had dropped her voice.

Oswley blew it off. "That's exactly what I had observed. Though she did slip up and let her true face show through." He explained that during his argument with Vick after Lassiter's botched interrogation that she had blurted out that she wanted to make sure to get the right guilty person, and then covered her mouth as if she'd just given away government secrets.

"Hmm. Maybe she is letting on more than she is telling us. Just now, speaking with her, she was shaken when I alluded that 'something terrible' may have happened to her detective post-abduction, but she nearly immediately jumped back to his carrying the guilt of murder."

"Huh. She's going to be a tough cookie to break," Oswley said frankly. "You haven't confirmed if you got a sample or not." It was almost a dare, as if he was thinking she chickened out.

Dr. Rhodes maintained a neutral tone because her face seemed unsure whether to smile or frown. "I did." She refrained from taking the vile out of her purse. "While he was unconscious."

When she hesitated, remorseful, Oswley tried to placate her. "We need that blood, Dr. Rhodes. Chief Vick already had Lassiter's blood run through a tox screen without his knowledge. If she refuses to take this seriously, then we have to take matters into our own hands."

"I know, but I feel like I violated his privacy. I doubt he would have complied had he been conscious. Did you also observe his paranoia? Honestly, he exhibits a behavior very similar to POWs; when he spoke of the probable memories, it was as if he were going back in time and reliving each second again, with more intensity. It was most horrifying to observe."

Oswley agreed. "Imagine walking into Interrogation with him face down on the table, his arms limp and on the floor. I thought he'd had a seizure after they'd beat him up." When Dr. Rhodes was silent, contemplating, Oswley added, "Well, I didn't know. That Detective Samuelson kind of looked the type to punch a suspect now and then. But now imagine my surprise when I find out they hadn't laid a finger on him. Never seen anything like it all my years in this business. Seen plenty of fakers, but he's definitely not faking. It kind of knocked the air out of me. Why remove him from the hospital in that condition?"

"If I may, he was quite lucid for a while and then managed to compose himself after his incident. But he told me that he's been experiencing fainting spells ever since he woke up on that beach."

"Hmm. I wonder if I shouldn't insist on an MRI scan."

"I'm not certain that's in his best interest right now. The last thing we need is him locked up in some lab while they feed him a steady diet of pills. Speaking of which, I don't think he's using his prescriptions. I checked the bottles," she explained after Oswley made a confused noise, "as a way of steadying myself after I'd taken his blood." She had felt a little like the man who had jabbed the syringe into Lassiter's arm during the detective's kidnapping. "Two of the bottles haven't even been opened, and of the other, only a few capsules were gone." She sniffed, "And I know that he's experiencing pain, though he tries not show it."

"Maybe he's afraid to take them," Oswley commented. "Maybe this— something to do with drugs or being drugged is related to your 'something terrible' theory."

"Yes, I think it is."

Juliet watched Dr. Rhodes from one of the windows near the precinct's front doors. The psychologist was just sitting in her car, talking on her cell phone. Juliet knew this couldn't be considered probably cause to observe the doctor, but on her way in she had caught the beginning of her phone conversation. Dr. Rhodes hadn't even seen her, but Juliet immediately recognized the name she said aloud.

_"Hello, Mr. Oswley, this is Dr. Ann Rhodes speaking," she said. "I believe we have the interests of a mutual client at heart."_

Though she hadn't caught Oswley's reply, she figured she knew who Dr. Rhodes was talking about. Why was Carlton's psychologist getting in touch with the detective's lawyer? She found it more than a little odd. Juliet wondered if she should say something to Vick, but she realized she had nothing more to offer than these two sentences. Though her partner had taught her well, everything by-the-book, no exceptions (except whenever Shawn Spencer was around, she thought with a slight blush), she couldn't shake the feeling that all the facts didn't add up. She wanted to go Lassiter's apartment and talk to him; but she couldn't without writing up a report that Vick would see. And what if Carlton didn't want to talk to her? In her heart, she believed he was innocent and wanted to help him get through this. She chewed her lip. She figured that, deep down, so did the Police Chief. But Karen had to be sneakier or be accused of playing favorites. Though was her acceptance of Lassiter's so-called hand in this murder just a mask she wore in the public eye? Juliet wanted to ask her, off the record, what she really thought. Though she knew the question wasn't pertinent and would not be answered.

She chewed her lip more and then stopped, remembering her partner's face in the interrogation room after he'd been brought around. And what he'd said to her. "You'll hurt yourself," he'd mumbled in her direction. "You'll cut up your beautiful lips." When she'd forced herself to stop, he seemed more relaxed, though no more coherent.

Juliet wondered if Shawn knew anything about what might be going on with Lassiter. Maybe she should swing by the Psych office on her lunch break later today and see if Shawn might be able to look into this. She sighed, and wondered at the state of her partner. She was worried; if she called him would be pick up?

* * *

Juliet was surprised to find the Psych office closed. It was around 1:30 pm; she figured Shawn took an early lunch rather than later. She sighed. Maybe he and Gus were following some lead. She thought about calling Shawn, but didn't really want to ask her questions over the phone. Juliet tried the door knob but the office was locked and looked dark inside. Digging around in her purse, she found a pad of paper and a pen, which she hoped still had ink inside. The last time she'd tried to write with it, it had given her difficulty. She tore out a piece and used the pad as a hard surface to write her message.

_Shawn,_

_Stopped by around 1:35 pm, August 10. Wanted to talk you about something. _

Her pen conked out. She shook it and then pressed down hard, scribbling until ink appeared.

_Call my cell when you get this. If I don't hear from you today, I'll stop by tomorrow morning. _

_Juliet_

She folded the paper, wrote _Shawn_ on its front, and slid it under the door. She hoped that if either Shawn or Gus came back today, they wouldn't just step on the note without seeing it. Well, even if that was the case, she was going to stop by tomorrow morning. Her shift tomorrow didn't start until 11 am; she hoped Shawn would be in the office before then. Well, she'd have to bring food just in case she needed to lure him; though she suspected that if he knew she was here waiting, she wouldn't need the food.

* * *

Lassiter sighed, and then told Shawn that he should probably file a police report on the incident.

Shawn laughed humorlessly. "You sound like Gus. And no way." His eyes twinkled. "Besides, you're the police. If anyone grills me about it, I can say I talked to you."

Lassiter frowned with exasperation. "You know that doesn't count. I'm on suspension."

Shawn shrugged. "Lassie, what the hell I am going to be able to say that's not going to implicate you? If I go to Vick and she makes me explain everything, well—"

"You could just explain you didn't see your attacker, which is true," Lassiter cut in.

Shawn gave an annoyed look. "And why was I on the Westside, near Leadbetter Beach, and in that alley? Even if I say it was for a private case I'm working on, they would still want to know the details."

"The Westside?" Lassiter asked suddenly. Inside his head, something dormant swirled. He pressed both hands to his face, barely noticing the hardness of the brace from his right wrist. He heard a rumble of voice, coming from outside his head, but he couldn't discern any words.

Wandering off to the kitchen, a rush of gloomy vertigo washed over Carlton, his head pinched with pain. He was sitting on the floor next to the island before he knew it. His kitchen was wobbling as he'd been playing that child's spinning game.

_"Mi caro,"_ the petite woman whispered over him, her dark hair swaying in a gentle breeze. Sea air wafted and mixed with the vanilla scent of her. He heard the sound of birds, a muted _caw caw caw_, as they dipped close to the ocean's surface at twilight. He blinked confusedly, his brow furrowed.

_"It wasn't necessary,"_ a man's voice said harshly. Then, _"Get it fast." _Figures over him, their mouths shaping words . . .

"Lassie, drink this." A worried male voice in the present time, pressing a glass into his hands.

"No," Lassiter muttered, pushing it back.

"It's water." The cold liquid was in his mouth. He spit it out. Hands under his armpits; he was hauled to his feet. Lassiter flailed, it felt weak. His hands were pressed against the coolness of the island. His knees bent, the space in front of his eyes sliding. He was caught before he fell, and pushed onto one of the stools.

"Did you eat anything today?" the male voice asked him. "Lassie?"

"Coffee. This morning," Lassiter answered. He did feel dizzy. "Um . . ." Shawn made an annoyed sound. Shawn fixed a large bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and slid it front of Lassiter. Lassiter stared at the bowl.

"Believe me, you'll be more alert if you can keep some of that down," Shawn told him with crossed arms, thinking of earlier when he'd forced himself to eat the sandwich at El Trinciante. Shawn rolled his eyes as Lassiter remained motionless, as if catatonic. He watched Lassiter to make sure he wouldn't topple backwards off the stool. The detective leaned forward and grasped the spoon.

Shawn went to Lassiter's couch. He grabbed the journal and put his feet up on the coffee table as he settled in to read. The entries, more fragments than anything else, reminded Shawn how much trouble Lassiter was in, and how the detective needed to be protected, whether the older man liked it or not. Shawn certainly didn't view Lassie as helpless, but things had already spiraled out of control because Lassiter was too freaked out to convince anyone of the dangerous situation he was in.

Two different memories linked up:

_"I will not talk to police." _

_"Good, say it, again, detective." _

_"I will not talk to police." _

_"Again." _

_"I will not talk to police." _

_"Again."_

_"I will not talk to police."_

_"Good. And what happens if you talk to police?"_

_"Something bad."_

_"That is right. What happens if you talk to police?"_

_"Something bad."_

Lassiter's account of his abduction:

_Sleeping, the middle of the night??? My room was dark. Someone shook me awake. Thought it was just a bad dream until my head hit the headboard. Two figures in black, standing over me. Both wearing gloves, ski masks. They made me drink something out of a glass. I swallowed most of it. One of them hit me; I think that's how I got that bruise under my eye. I tried to get up. One of them squeezed my neck. _

_"Get it fast," one of the figures said. Male voice._

_I fought back and got out of my bed. I ran to the front room, trying to get to the phone. Or one of my guns._

_"Grab him, you idiot!" one of them yelled. Male voice, harsher than the first one. _

_I got to the phone and started to dial 911. One of them punched the hollow of my throat. The phone was knocked out of my hand before I could complete the call. A man grabbed me. Maybe 5'11"? Stocky/ bulky, maybe. I remember hard dark brown eyes. Mean. He twisted my wrist in front of me and then he covered my mouth with other his hand. He was wearing gloves. He was deceptively strong; or was what they made me drink already affecting me? I tried to fight. The other figure approached me with a syringe . . . and I suddenly had clarity that they had broke in to abduct me . . . but I don't know why. . . . _

Shawn skimmed through the account of the beach; wincing as he read the parts of Lassiter's vomiting and the detective's incident with the shard of glass. He read that the previous memory had come to Lassiter as he rested in the hospital, trying to awaken from his ordeal on the beach.

_I was sleeping . . . hospital. I'd talked to Chief Vick earlier, told her what I remembered. Not sure how late it was, but I woke up to an unfamiliar figure standing in the doorway. At first I wasn't lucid and thought maybe it was a nurse or a doctor but the figure didn't act like a nurse. And the person didn't have any of that medical equipment nurses have to check your vitals. It was a man, stocky, maybe five foot eleven, fifties, with dark hair, maybe. His skin was leathery like a mask. His sideburns, a touch of gray. Under his left eye, a small curled scar. _Lassiter had drawn a crude rendering of the scar. _A small brown mustache_._ He pulled the nurse's call button away from me._

_"Who are you?" I demanded, and he wrapped his hand around my throat. _

_"Oh, you don't remember me," he said in a low voice. "That is good, very good. You are quite persistent, aren't you? That is a reason why we chose you." _Lassiter had punctuated these two statements with many question marks.

_When I tried to speak he twisted my already injured wrist . . . the one that had been hurt when my apartment was broken into. Did he know??? How???_

_"You ask too many questions, you did ask too many then too," the man told me . "You are not very good at listening."_ More question marks.

_The man continued, "You were told specifically not to talk to the police, Detective. Mr. Bernise will be most displeased by your insubordination."_

Lassiter had made a note about the Bernise Locksmith Company here. The pink carbon copy was folded and tucked into these pages, along with the Post-its where Shawn had written down the description of the locksmith. Lassie had detailed his episode with realizing the keys were the same as the ones in the envelope, which was the same as his regular apartment key. He wrote how he had not called a locksmith.

_He kept twisting my wrist every time I tried to say something. I didn't realize until later that he must of sprained it. He said that I had "walked away wearing all that blood" and I wonder if he means that t-shirt that I was wearing when I woke up on the beach. He yanked my wrist again and said, "Very bad." Then he told me to close my eyes and count to 100, and tightened his grip on my neck and wrist. I guess I passed out because when I woke up he was gone. _

Shawn scanned the part about Lassie finding the envelope and then curiously made his way through Lassie's account of needing to escape from the hospital. The detective's volatile trepidation was palpable. He turned some pages and got to Lassiter's account of a similar paranoia later that day, swearing that someone had grabbed his shoulder, and then the two sweeps of his apartment before Vick broke down his door. Like Shawn had suggested, Lassie detailed the panic he felt when he got a memory. This included the strange drifting away sensation he'd gotten after his search hadn't yielded anything, and the eeriness he'd felt hearing pounding on his door and voices yelling for him to open the door. _I just wanted to sleep, _Lassiter had written.

Lassie detailed the dream he'd had in Santa Barbara General after his arrest.

_Dark, like being inside a box. I yelled out to the presence, "Who are you? What do you want from me?" Laughter from all sides. I couldn't tell if it was male or female laughter. A solid form pushed passed me like a boulder, hit me, knocked me backwards. There was something solid directly behind me, I fell onto it and we both hit the ground. In the dream, I tried to find it but my hands kept hitting dead air. More laughter; then my heart pounded so loudly I thought I was having a heart attack. _

Shawn grimaced reading the next part. He stole a glance at Lassiter, who actually had the spoon to his mouth, but seemed to be dazed.

_The seams holding my skin together tore, right along my elbow, up to my pinky fingertip. These horrible ripping noises. Blood spurted, then bones poked through. More blood, oozing. I thought, I need something to stop the blood! I need to stabilize the wound. I was on my knees and the blood was spraying all over my face, getting into my mouth. A voice, all distorted, told me that I wasn't ever going to be free because I hadn't done what I was told to do. I thought I saw a face over me and I went towards it. There were all these black ribbons moving like in a whipping wind. The face was made of smoke and when I touched it it blew away. When I woke up again, Vick was in the room with me. She told me I was being released into police custody. She actually asked me what was going on, and I tried to tell her, but she pissed me off because she refuses to believe me. I don't know how many times I have to tell her that I was abducted before she believes it. I tried to tell her that that man had come into my room that night and that's why I was spooked when I woke up, but to her I'm crazy. The sane man she knew all those years is gone. ????_

Shawn glanced at Lassiter again. He imagined that it had to be especially hard to write these parts about Vick. Not that Lassiter and Vick had the same kind of BFF relationship that he had with Gus, but Lassiter likely expected that his police Chief would have faith in him, trust him, protect him, help him when he was in trouble. He felt pity for Lassiter that Vick had taken a guilty until proven innocent approach with her head detective. Still, Vick had released Lassiter after very little interrogation, and had let him stay on house arrest rather than in lock up. Shawn suspected that Vick was doing the best she could— at a distance— while she tried to figure out what was going on with Lassiter.

"More?" Shawn asked Lassiter, noticing the detective's bowl was empty. He could use a break from this heavy reading anyway. Lassiter looked forlornly at the empty bowl but didn't move. Shawn grabbed the bowl and refilled it. After Lassiter had chewed another spoonful he mumbled, "I forgot to eat. Huh."

Shawn frowned. "Well, I can understand. I had to make myself eat after—" He glanced at his left arm before his eyes swept towards Lassiter's hospital pills, highlighting the "take with food" symbols on each. "Please don't tell me you've been swallowing those pills without food in your stomach, Lassie."

Lassiter shrugged. Then he asked Shawn what had happened a short time ago.

Shawn shook his head. "I don't know. One second you were headed to your kitchen and the next you were on the floor. Did you have another memory?"

Lassiter thought about it. "The room was spinning," he said. He told Shawn that the woman he'd been recalling lately was standing over him, and the air smelled of the ocean.

"The Notte girl?" Shawn interrupted.

Lassiter's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "I wish I could get her first name to come to me." He sighed, making a face. "I know that I heard one of them say it—" His eyes rose to Shawn's. "You've been reading my accounts, right?"

"Yeah. You said in those first couple entries that—"

_"Mi caro,"_ the petite woman whispered in Lassiter's ear. The sound of birds, a muted _caw caw caw_, as they dipped close to the ocean's surface, collecting fish in their beaks. This juxtapositioned with the man's harsh tone, _"It wasn't necessary,"_ Then, _"Get it fast." _Figures over him, their mouths shaping words . . . .

"I couldn't move," Lassiter said softly. "I don't understand why." He shook his head slowly.

"You mentioned you were tied up," Shawn said gently. Lassiter nodded. "But that this Notte girl—" Shawn felt embarrassed saying that the girl had ungagged Lassiter to make out with him, so he skipped it and said instead, "The cut on your stomach? Really?" Shawn's eyes were wide.

Lassiter pushed the half eaten cereal away, no longer hungry. He smiled grimly. "Sick, isn't it? First, she kisses me. Then, she cuts me. Now, she's stalking me. I don't even know who she is, what she wants." He laughed, a dry sound that was more like a guffaw. "You can admit it, Spencer, I sound insane. I act insane. Out of touch with reality."

Shawn shook his head. "Maybe at first glance, Lassie, but whatever's happening to you— you're not in control of it. You're like one of those marionettes whose just getting jerked around by some unseen hands. Not a pleasant thought, I know."

Lassiter pushed back the stool. "I wish I could remember something helpful. Like a why or a who or a what." He sighed with frustration.

Shawn thought about what Gus had mentioned a few days ago. "Lassie, you think this is someone with a grudge? Like Jason's mother in _Friday the 13th_?"

Lassiter made a sour face but bit his tongue because he realized that, despite Spencer's obscure 80's movie references, Spencer was making a point. What if the girl whose face he was seeing all the time now was just a mask? What if the real threat was someone else . . . the man in the hospital? The locksmith? Or the stranger who had grabbed Spencer in the alley? He gave Spencer a darkly amused look, realizing that the younger man wouldn't know what to do with such deep thoughts on such a shallow subject. "Maybe," was all he offered aloud, adding that this grudge could come from anywhere; he'd collared many perps over the years.

"Well, maybe the next step would be— looking into some of your old cases, then?" Shawn asked. "Maybe there are some clues as to who might have a grudge? Like a serious 'I-want-to-mess-with-your-head-and-ruin-your-life' grudge. Can you think of any that—"

Carlton smiled darkly, leading Shawn to believe that the majority of the detective's closed cases over the years had criminals who would give an eye to torture Lassiter. But who would actually go through with it?

"How are you going to do that?"

Shawn smiled deviously to himself. Shawn pressed his fingers to his head, trying to "see" the past.

Lassiter rolled his eyes, and asked flatly, "Are you getting anything?"

When Shawn didn't answer, Lassiter sighed. "You can't just walk into the station and ask to see all my old case files, Spencer."

"Well, I am hooked up to the internet. Come on, Lassie, are there any cases that really stick out to you as big? Or scary?"

Lassiter pursed his lips, shrugged. He wasn't certain where to begin. There were lots of big cases, sure, but scary? Was there really someone from his past this furious with him? What mistake could he have made— or what person or person's family may he have "wronged" in some obscure or obvious way? The past was a blur— hard to separate into individual occurrences, cases, faces, angers.

"Fine," Shawn moped, "I see you're going to make me do all the hard work while you just sit here like a lump."

Lassiter scowled but didn't say anything to Shawn. He started thinking about something Spencer had said a few days ago— the day Guster had discovered the black and white photograph of Shawn in the Psych Office, asleep and alone. What the hell had the kid said? That he'd been talking to a—

"Hypnotist," Lassiter said aloud, but thought it was too soft for Spencer to hear. He was wrong.

"What did you say?" Shawn asked, staring at the cop quizzically. A slow grin was taking over his face.

Color splashed onto Lassiter's cheeks. "Forget it."

"You want to be hypnotized— so you can remember something in your past. That's a great idea, Lassie!" Shawn jumped up and down a few times.

"No," Lassiter began. "I was just—"

"Shut it," Shawn said. "No take backs."

"Get out," Lassiter snarled. His eyes sweeped across the bruise, but he held onto his resolve. Spencer stared him down, still grinning. "Get out now, or I'll call your father. About that."

Shawn made a "like-you-would-really-dare" sound and crossed his arms. "It's a good idea, and you know it. Plus, it would probably help— maybe even clear you of the murder. Woo— murder charge, remember that?"

Lassiter's face pinched, and he pointed unceremoniously to his ankle cuff. "Gee, no. I'd forgotten all about it— till I went out to my mailbox and the thing beeped." He sneered, but went to his land line.

"You wouldn't— really?" Shawn asked, a little nervous. He suspected Lassie had his father on speed dial because they were fishing buddies. But he wasn't ready to let his father in on all this yet. Henry always wanted Shawn to see and do things _his_ way— and well, Shawn was not Henry. He had to do things his own way.

When Lassiter started punching buttons, Shawn stepped up to pull the phone away, even though it was Lassiter's place and thus, Lassiter's property. Too late he realized he was reenacting a nasty scenario. Lassiter froze, and then Shawn froze and stepped back, letting go of the phone. Horror had washed over Lassiter's face; he didn't see Spencer in front of him but instead, the man in black with the mask, ripping the phone away as he tried to dial 911.

"I— I'm sorry," Shawn mumbled, embarrassed. "I didn't think."

Lassiter opened his mouth to chew Spencer out, angry at the kid, but there wasn't any sound in his vocal chords.

"I'm just going to go," Shawn said woodenly, grabbing the journal and shoving it into his backpack. He paused at the door, and then forced himself to remind Lassie to call him if there was any trouble. "I'll try not to be stupid," Shawn told him as way of an apology. "Uh, maybe you should put some furniture in front of your door tonight," Shawn added, opening the door and going through it.

He was flustered as he started his bike, but no longer shaken from his earlier attack, so driving home wasn't a problem. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, he could persuade Lassiter into trying this hypnosis thing. Clearly, Lassiter had been thinking it may be a solution. But why, after he suggested it, had he had such an adverse reaction to Shawn's pressing it? Okay, he'd try the records room at the station, and if he couldn't get Juliet on board, then, the internet. But god, it was over ten years of case files; that was going to be exhausting. Well, he figured he could rule out the past three years, since he'd become a consultant with the SBPD; no, this had to be related to something much further into Lassie's past, back, maybe, before anyone really knew him. Shawn sighed into his helmet as he pulled up to his apartment. Maybe it was best to start at the beginning. Besides, hovering around the station asking about Lassiter's early years might be convincing if Shawn could manage to sell it to anyone asking that Shawn was developing a hero complex for Lassiter. Shawn laughed inwardly. Just let his father get any whiff of that; he'd blow a gasket. Which, Shawn figured, would be worth in and of itself, to see.

* * *

When he got home, Shawn managed to eat a bowl of cereal and read a few more entries of Lassie's. He thought again about what Lassie was resisting to get in touch with his past; maybe the man, already getting odd and often violent memories, was just scared. Shawn figured he have to do some serious coaxing to get Lassie to relent.

Lassiter had numbered the notes, and detailed them in the journal with a title, as well as possible meanings. The notes themselves, including the latest, were tucked inside, each in its own separate plastic bags, and the lyrics Shawn had given him were folded inside.

"No mercy" was note number one, and Lassie wrote that it had been in the envelope with the first two keys.

"Ask for another day" was note two, which Shawn had found in Lassiter's unlocked police sedan the day Lassiter had passed out and was taken to the hospital by Vick. That was the same day Shawn had noticed the tires were all slashed.

Note number three was titled "Liar" and was found on his fridge, with today's date, August 10. The gun magnet was included with the note.

Lassiter had written that the "fourth" note had been scratched into his car and it read: "Ask Tell". Shawn figured when he got the pictures developed, he could add this to the evidence.

Lassie had wrote about the way he'd found his apartment upon his return, with all signs of a struggle erased; how his main gun was missing, how he'd found his police things lined up. He wrote big question marks around "glass" and mentioned about why had they (who????) missed it if they'd cleaned up everything else. Then he mentioned that he'd spit up some of the liquid . . . . but then said that he looked in his bedroom and noticed for the first time that one of his sheets was missing. More question marks.

Lassiter mentioned the horror of discovering the picture of Shawn on his coffee table and that Shawn had taken it for now. Shawn got the picture off of his night stand and pushed it into the journal. He opened the journal to its next blank page and wrote down his own account of what had happened to him today, starting with the basics at Santa Barbara General and ending with the description of the attack. He omitted the parts where Gus came to his rescue and then signed his name to the account, adding that he included his observations because he had gone to the Westside of Lassiter's behalf.

* * *

Shawn was more than a little surprised to find Juliet outside of the Psych office at 8:30 am the morning of August 11. She seemed surprised to see him too. The truth was, he had a restless night. Not only did he check his locks four times before he could get into his bed, every time he rolled onto his hurt arm, he woke up in pain. He had a continuous dream of the attack; each time he awoke and fell back to sleep he would fall right back into the dream. Only in the dream, he was screaming for help but nothing was coming out of his mouth, and he couldn't break his hold. His attacker kept getting more ground on him, dragging him further and further back from the open escape of the alley. Or if he managed to break free, the alley was actually dead ended so he was trapped. He must have woken up screaming at least once every two hours. On top of this, he was remorseful about the way he'd left things with Lassie; god, he'd probably made things worse for the guy. Shawn couldn't believe Lassie was going to tattletale to his father just because Shawn thought it was a good idea for Lassie to go under hypnosis. The detective was way too damn stubborn.

Shawn's mouth split into a wide grin; Juliet was mulling around in front of one of the benches, and she was holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and what looked like some kind of yellow colored fruit smoothie. In her other hand there was a paper bag, which as he got closer, noticed had the friendly smell of greasy homemade breakfasts. "Jules," Shawn greeted her warmly, barely resisting the urge to touch her arm. "It's a pleasure to see you first thing in the morning." His grin got wider as her cheeks took on a little blush.

"Um, you too, Shawn." She squinted in the early morning sun. "I guess you didn't get the note I left?"

"Huh?" Shawn asked, delicately taking the bag from her and opening it. He peered inside and sniffed, warm bread, fresh egg, melted cheese.

"Yesterday. I left you a note. I dropped by at my lunch break, around 1:30. You or Gus never made it in?"

A trace of frown crossed Shawn's lips. "No. Gus was at Central Coast all day and I was—" Yesterday's events flashed before Shawn's eyes, and he felt the weight of not enough sleep bearing down on his shoulders. All of a sudden he was glad he'd pulled on a jacket before he'd left. "Out. Working on a case."

Juliet nodded. "Can we go inside? I wanted to talk you about something."

"Ooh, inside?" Shawn teased. "You want private time with me? I'm so flattered."

Because Shawn had taken the bag of breakfast sandwiches from him, she had a free hand to jab him in the stomach. He jumped playfully. She rolled her eyes and gestured towards the office. "Please, sometime today. My shift starts at 11." Shawn offered up a goofy grin and got out his keys. He went in and Juliet followed, scooping up the note from the floor and shoved it in her pocket. "So, is that delicious yellowness for you or me?" Shawn asked, eyeing the tray.

Juliet allowed a playful smile. "Oh, it's for me." She laughed when Shawn's jaw dropped with mock horror. "I got you coffee too because I wasn't sure." As Shawn grabbed the smoothie and sucked up a mouthful through the straw, Juliet told him it was pineapple-mango flavored; she remembered how the other day he'd said he'd been enjoying one. Shawn turned away because a furious blush had creeped over his cheeks. A few days ago, huh; he wasn't sure if he was blushing because he was touched she remembered that conversation, or because what he'd said had been a big fat lie.

"So, Jules, what did your note say?"

"It was vague," she told him. "But the point is—" She stopped and chewed her lip, and then seemed to catch herself. Shawn watched her quizzically while he took a large bite of the breakfast sandwich. Unlike yesterday, the taste of egg and cheese burst all over his tongue. He savored it while he observed her body language.

"Jules," he said, his mouth half full, "the spirits are telling me that you're apprehensive about being here."

"Yes," Juliet said, astounded. "How did you—" She shook her head to clear it. "The reason I want to talk to you—" She paused again, and took a sip of coffee. Now that she was here, she wasn't certain it was the best idea. What if this somehow got back to Vick?

"You're worrying because you think that whatever you tell me won't be confidential and that Vick is going to find out."

Juliet's eyes widened and her jaw slacked. Shawn was grinning ear to ear. "Okay, okay, how did you know that's what I was thinking?"

Shawn reached out and squeezed her wrist gently, his whole face a smile. Of course he couldn't tell her it was because she had just unknowingly said it aloud; he simply told her he'd had a vision of her standing in front of Vick's disapproving face. "Now, they didn't tell me—" He let go of her wrist after giving another squeeze, and pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Oh, I see. Yes, spirits, that _is_ cute."

"What?" Juliet almost pleaded. She took another sip of her coffee to hide her blush.

"This is about Lassie," Shawn told her. His smile waned a little; though he knew it was silly to be jealous of Lassiter. After all, Jules had come to _him_, not Lassie.

"Yes," Juliet confirmed. "I'm— I'm worried about him, Shawn." She sighed, and sank into a chair. "I want to do something to help him— but I'm kind of bound by the law."

Shawn smiled fully again. "So, you came to me to help you get around the law." He laughed. "Well, it's about time."

"What?" she asked, stunned. Shawn's eyes twinkled. Shawn knew he couldn't tell her everything; but if he had her on his side, he wouldn't have to play secret ninja to get himself into the SBPD records room. "Shawn— is that the case you've been working on? Carlton? Wait," she rolled her eyes. "Why would you do that?"

Shawn frowned. "Why not? Lassie isn't a killer. He's just scared."

Juliet licked her lips and looked him in the eyes. "Do you know why?"

Hmm, this was a touchy question. "How much of what he said do you believe, Jules?"

She thought. "I believe— why would he lie about being abducted? It doesn't make any sense why he would."

"No," Shawn agreed. "Jules—"

She held up her hand. "Yesterday, Vick sent a psychologist to Carlton's apartment for an evaluation."

"Okay," Shawn said, though he knew this already.

"I don't know what happened during the session, but the psychologist showed up to see Vick directly following it. I wasn't included in the meeting, but I saw her leaving on my way in, and she said the most curious thing to a Mr. Oswley."

"Oswley? Who's that?"

"Carlton's lawyer." She told him what Dr. Rhodes had said, and then how she had watched from inside as the doctor continued the conversation in her car.

"'I believe we have the interests of a mutual client at heart'?" Shawn repeated. "Lassie?" Huh. Lassie hadn't mentioned anything about that; Shawn hoped it was because the detective didn't know and not because he was keeping secrets again. "That's odd. I wonder if she meant it in a good way or a bad way? So, is that why you decided to come to me?"

Juliet nodded. "I can't really go to Karen about it. Besides, it worries me how she— No, never mind." She closed her eyes. "She's doing her job. What I should be doing."

"Jules, you are doing your job," Shawn told her, finishing the sandwich. He slurped at the smoothie. "Isn't it a cop's job to get all the facts before you come to your conclusions?"

Juliet smiled. "You know, Shawn, you would make a good cop." Shawn rubbed the back of his neck, as if embarrassed or annoyed. _But I like you just they way you are,_ she thought. She wondered suddenly why Shawn hadn't taken off his jacket. True, the office was air conditioned, but it was by no means cold in here.

"I'm glad you stopped by—" He offered another goofy grin. "I mean, it's nice to see you anytime, without any good reason, but I wanted to talk to you— about Lassie too." He explained briefly that Lassiter had asked him for help— actually, Shawn had volunteered to help him— because since his abduction, his memory was splotchy. "He keeps remembering things, but they're a bunch of disjointed images that he's having a hard time making sense of."

"Shawn," Juliet cut in, "earlier, you said that Carlton is scared." Her eyes shone and Shawn knew she wanted to know the whole truth. "Is there a reason other than being accused of murder and not being able to remember what happened?"

_Goddammit_. She'd just stolen the half-truth answer right out of his mouth. He hesitated, not sure how much he should give away. He figured that if Lassie found out he'd talked to her, he'd either have a panic attack or beat Shawn senseless. Maybe both. Shawn thought about it hard; he knew he had to do his best to protect Lassie, but he also had to offer enough so that Jules would help him unravel some of the mystery.

"Shawn?"

Dammit, she'd know something was up. He was taking too long contemplating. Okay, another half-truth might suffice. "Jules, Lassie's scared because he thinks someone's stalking him. Watching him. He doesn't know if it's the person or people who may have taken him, or if this runs further into his past— like into some case he worked on a while back, someone who might be disgruntled enough to seek out revenge."

"Oh," was all Juliet said for a few minutes. Most of what he said was true; it was just that Lassiter hadn't actually expressed that he could pinpoint anyone from any past cases who may have it out for him. "Watching him?" she finally said, pondering if Carlton only felt this way because he was forced to stay in his apartment.

Shawn nodded. He'd picked this detail because Lassiter's usual behavior— before all this— had often tended sometimes to lean towards paranoia. So it only seemed natural— and, Shawn hoped, the least likely reason Lassie would slug him. But to sell it, Shawn had to go one step further. "You remember that day you and Vick went to see him in the hospital and he was gone?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Vick mentioned he'd tried to feed her some story about unknown visitor who had threatened him."

Shawn nodded, but didn't comment. He actually had proof— he'd asked Mandy for a copy of the hospital security footage even though the figure was pretty much indistinguishable. He suppressed a sigh. "Well, real or imagined, Lassie was freaked out. He said that he didn't feel safe there—" When Juliet raised an eyebrow, Shawn added, "Paranoid, right? Well, he panicked and wanted to get out because he thought the person might come back. So he climbed out the window and walked home."

"Seriously?" Juliet deadpanned.

"Now, the Lassie I know— knew— isn't scared of supposed bad dreams. But he maintains that he was taken out of his apartment—"

"But his apartment was pristine, Shawn. You were there. Did it look like there had been fighting?"

"Jules," Shawn said quietly, "what if his kidnappers cleaned up? What if their plans were so calculated that they knew exactly how to screw with Lassiter's life so it would seem like he's telling a bunch of tall tales just so he can cover up a murder?" While Juliet mulled it over, Shawn asked her if she had told Vick about Lassiter's slashed tires.

"What?" she asked distractedly. She vaguely remembered this conversation. "Yes, I did."

"And?"

"Shawn— she blew it off. I'm sorry."

Shawn frowned. He wondered if he should tell her about the words cut into the paint. Maybe he would wait until he got the disposable camera developed. "Jules, has Lassie ever bragged about any of his early cases, you know, from before you were transferred to Santa Barbara?"

Juliet's eyebrows shot up and she laughed. Shawn stared at her, a bit dumbfounded. She took some deep breaths, and composed herself. "Sorry, Shawn, but have you ever met Carlton?" She gave him a meaningful look.

_Duh, Shawn_, he scolded himself. After all this, he'd been the one who'd practically forced Lassiter into accepting his help, rather Lassiter coming to him. "Oh," he said, "I see what you mean." He sighed, frustrated. "I just thought, maybe, he'd referenced a case of his over the years—"

"Well, sure, for instructional purposes," Juliet said. "But if you're asking if he told me about some case with a bunch of angry criminals who threatened him back in the day— well, no, he didn't."

Shawn smiled even though he wanted to grimace. "Yeah." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He had to offer her the name; maybe she could do something with it. "Jules, Lassie remembered a name— he thinks it's a surname— of one of the people he thinks may have, uh, attacked him." The name probably belonged to the mystery woman; Shawn recalled Lassiter's reaction when he'd seen her outside his apartment; like she was dangerous, on fire, or made from razors. He scrawled _Notte_ down on a piece of a paper and passed it her so she could see how it was spelled. "Have you ever heard of or seen this name before?"

Juliet stared at the paper. "Lassie said it's pronounced 'Note-tey'." She mouthed the name a few times but didn't say it aloud.

"Do you know what nationality this surname is?" she asked.

"Oh," Shawn said. That was an interesting question. "No. I hadn't thought about it."

"Have you Googled it?"

Shawn cracked a smile. "Not yet. Wow, Jules, you're a step ahead of me." He went to his computer and turned it on. Juliet watched him while he waited for the computer to start.

"Shawn, have you been watching out for my partner ever since you called me from outside the hospital that day that Carlton passed out in his apartment?"

Shawn looked up. That was pretty much as close to the truth. He smiled at her. "Maybe," he replied. He winked at her.

"Why have you—"

He shrugged, and clicked on the Firefox icon. The page opened to Google and he typed in "Notte". "Because, Jules, I'm not a cop. I'm a psychic. And the spirits keep telling me that Lassie's innocent. They just won't shut up about it!" He smiled deviously at her. "Plus, Jules, I just can't shake the feeling that something kooky's going on." He frowned, and moved his left arm involuntarily. Yeah, kooky was an understatement. Juliet looked thoughtful, reflecting on Shawn's words. His eyes scanned the screen.

_"La notte_," he read off the first result. "The night."

"The night?" Juliet repeated. She got up and looked up over Shawn's shoulder. She bent towards the screen, her face close to his. He enjoyed how close she was, the aromatics of her shampoo or skin, but tried not to let it show on his face. She pointed to the first result and he clicked on it. "It's Italian. 'Notte' means 'night' in Italian."

"Huh," Shawn muttered. "Let's try this." He went back to Google and typed in "notte" and "detective lassiter". No records found. Shawn tried "night" with Lassiter's name, and got some random hits relating to news articles, but nothing useful.

"Try 'Italian' with his name," Juliet said over his shoulder.

"Okay," Shawn nodded. "Italian" and "Detective Lassiter" only got a few hits, and none were useful.

"Try his first name there instead of 'Detective', Shawn." Juliet's brow furrowed. He did, and the results popped up in 3 seconds.

"Whoa," Shawn breathed. "Lassie." He scanned the results in the upper right corner. "Showing results 1-10 of 300."

"Do you think Gus would mind if I used his computer?" Juliet asked, already going towards it.

"Nah, go ahead, Jules." Juliet sat down at Gus's desk with purpose. "Shawn, I don't know if Vick will ask you if I was here, but in case, the official story is that it's a social call." She smiled at him over Gus's computer.

Shawn's eyes twinkled deviously. "Jules, I can barely believe the words coming out of your mouth."

"It's not a lie," Juliet said quickly, dropping her eyes to the screen in front of her. "This kind of is a social call— and well before my shift starts anyway."

They sifted through recent articles, like Lassiter chasing and catching thieves who'd robbed his favorite Italian sub shop, or Lassiter speaking at an Italian rotary club or Lassiter's opinion on a departmental poll regarding Italian food. Finally, in the middle of page three, Shawn found what looked like an archived result from the _Santa Barbara Daily. _He clicked on the page after scanning the description, which included the words: _officer Carlton Lassiter . . . 1998 . . . Italian drug lord . . . Roman Cavaliere. _His heart jumped into his throat as he clicked on the news article.

_Santa Barbara Daily_, Santa Barbara, CA

August 12, 1998

_This is one of those bright sunny days that will be etched in Santa Barbara's history as the day justice came to town. Italian drug lord and child killer, Roman Cavaliere, was convicted to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Cavaliere had been in business for many years and despite several prior arrests, was able to allude sentencing for years. An intensive 18 month SBPD sting operation with key players, including both arresting officers, Detective Adam Marks and Officer Carlton Lassiter, collected tangible and damning evidence of Cavaliere's guilt. Cavaliere could no longer hide behind high powered lawyers or his family's prestigious and regal name. Says Det. Adam Marks, "One of the reasons Cavaliere alluded conviction all these years was lack of viable proof. The products he laced with his dangerous experimental drugs, which were all made available to children as young as five years of age, changed from year to year so that the source was nearly untraceable." _


	13. Chapter 12: Have I A Reason, Am I A Liar

**Chapter Twelve: Have I A Reason, Am I Liar? Am I Poison? Am I Alive?**

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Disclaimer: I credit Wikipedia for its information regarding psychoactive drugs. I do not own lyrics to Hungry Lucy's song _Grave. _

Italian Vocabulary: (Which I credit to wordreference dot com ): _Si_ = Yes; _Giocattolo _= Toy; _Non lo so_ = I don't know; _Ho paura di avere cattive notizie per voi_ = I'm afraid I have some bad news for you; _di nascosto_ = on the sly; _mi carissima_ = my darling (feminine); _Questa situazione sa di trappola _= This situation smells like a trap;_ Tenere a mente_ = Keep in mind; _é morto di una morte dolorosa_ = He died a painful death.

Author's Note: Hey, I just wanted to thank everyone who has been reviewing. Your feedback really lifts my spirits and gives me that rare chance at a smile. I'm so appreciative. :D You and your reviews are like priceless, precious jewels to me, so thanks again. Enjoy. ~silverluna

There are a couple disturbing images in this chapter, which involve blood. Nothing too gory though.

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* * *

Gus had been able to resist checking up on Shawn until after he got to Central Coast at 9 am. He had some paperwork to complete and then later today would have to make some pharm. demo runs for potential clients. He sat down at his desk and worked for fifteen minutes before he lost focus. Sighing, he got out his cell phone and dialed Shawn's number. It went straight to voice mail. He wondered if Shawn was still asleep.

_Shawn, it's me. Consider this your preemptive call of the day in case you want to try to get yourself taken hostage or shot today._ He sighed._ I'll likely be at Central Coast all day today, but if you need anything, call me. Okay? Shawn, are you listening to me?_ Gus felt the need to add this, even though he was talking to a voice mailbox. _I hope you weren't fibbing when you said you were okay yesterday._ He ran a hand across his face. His best friend really worried the hell out him sometimes. _I wish I could talk you out of this case._ Gus glanced up, making sure no one was walking by. _Please call me if you're in trouble. Let me spell this out for you. B-E C-A-R-E-F-U-L. Talk to you later._

After the call, Gus felt a little better, but he still shivered, getting the unwanted image of Shawn's bruised arm and the strained look on Shawn's face when Gus had met him at the cafe. Gus knew that seeing the picture of himself had upset Shawn, he didn't think Shawn had been scared until the attack. As went back to the paperwork, he hoped Shawn would really _get_ his message.

After he'd worked for little over an hour, someone knocked on his door.

* * *

Lassiter was agitated all night, barely getting any sleep. In the morning, his bones felt hollowed and his head ached.

After Spencer was gone, he'd replaced the phone in its cradle and sank to the couch. _Why can't I just get a grip? _He locked his door, feeling it to be the most useless thing, and then dragged the arm chair back in front of it, his cheeks red with this ridiculousness of it. He felt like one of those idiot kids from a horror movie who thought they were completely safe in their own homes. _As if there aren't other ways to get in,_ his inner voice teased him. He refrained from telling himself to shut up, and sighed instead.

His pain eventually got the best of him and he cracked open one of the other bottles of pills, one whose label read it caused drowsiness. He took two with a glass of water, and got in bed. Each time he was on the verge of sleep, something jerked him back. After this happened three times, he went to the bathroom, but that didn't help. _Maybe I'm having a bad reaction to these pills,_ Lassiter thought, his head and neck hurting from lack of sleep. He hunkered down and squeezed his eyes closed. Restless, sleep rushed in and he fell into a dream.

_Spencer, out there all alone in a dark alley, his arm encircled by a bloody hand print. _Lassiter's body tensed in his sleep; he rolled over and curled into a ball._ "You did this!" Spencer was screaming. He spun around in the alley, blood flowing down his arm. Then, much more to Lassiter's horror, he was shocked to see that Spencer's face was cut. A laceration, nasty, and definitely not superficial. The corners of Spencer's mouth, nose, and eyes, all slashed open, blood gushing, like a mask. _

Lassiter jerked awake, his body soaked with cold sweat. He was shaking violently, as if he'd never get warm again. _No, that image wasn't right. That hadn't happened._ He forced himself to stay calm and took in some steadying breaths.

He got up and went to the living room. He curled upon the couch, shivering a little without a blanket, but deciding to tough it out. Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy and he stretched out on his back.

Lassiter sat up fast; light in his apartment, it was morning. His joints creaked and he hastily rubbed at his shoulders and arms to loosen the knots. He looked around. The chair was still in its place against the front door; had he really slept out here last night?

He wriggled his fingers in the brace; they were stiff and his right wrist was tingly and weak. He shook it out and wondered if he'd slept on it for part of the night. He padded towards the kitchen and took two of the lowest dose pills with some water. Frowning at the offending container of pills, the ones he'd popped last night, he moved the bottle to the other side of the counter to remind himself they didn't agree with him.

Sighing, he went towards his front window and looked out. He could see his red police sedan in its same parking spot. _When did I drive it last?_ he wondered. It was the most mundane thought, as if the reason it had remained idle all this time was that he'd been sick with the stomach flu or out of town on business. He smiled ironically, and then let his mouth curl into a growl. He wondered if he could go out and take a look at it without being out of range of the box. Lassiter was suddenly itching to see it; he couldn't really make out from here what condition the tires were in.

Well, it was worth a shot, right? Lassiter went to his bedroom and pulled on sweatpants, slipped into a pair of sneakers, and grabbed his key ring off the top of the dresser. The keys felt very heavy in his hands; as he walked towards his front door, small thoughts snowballed. When_ had they gotten their hands on my keys?_ _They had to at some point, in order to make copies; when were the keys out of my sight?_ So far so good down the hall, into the lobby. Lassiter almost felt like breaking into a sprint, heading for state lines, taking his chances. He resisted, opened the door, and went down the steps. The cuff was silent. _How long were they watching me, getting close, before they made their move?_ Carlton shivered, though the morning was warm with early pulsing rays. He was certain that that was how the two men had managed to get into his apartment in the first place— they already had their copied keys. Otherwise, wouldn't they have had to break the door in, or pick the lock? And if O'Hara and McNab and the others had been over here, looking into his disappearance, they wouldn't have missed that.

At his sedan now, and the cuff was still silent. Lassiter went to the driver's side, first, squatting down by the door. "Wow," he breathed, his fingers tracing the words that Spencer had told him about. They were even more hideous close up. _Ask. Tell._ He reached out and touched the driver's side tire, airless, sagged against the ground. It was an unpleasant embodiment of the dream he'd had before he'd woken up soaked with sweat. _It was just a bad dream, _Lassiter reminded himself, _that's not what happened to the kid. _Though some thoughts persisted that some of this was based in some reality; a nagging throe with an almost physical pain about it. He rubbed at the back of his neck absently. _Maybe I don't want to see the rest of the tires,_ he told himself, getting to his feet. Why slash his tires? Was it just a malicious prank, or was it some sort of message? Pointless, that's what it was. He couldn't even drive his car if he'd wanted to. Lassiter stared across the street; he realized suddenly that if the woman appeared, he wouldn't be able to chase her like Spencer had. And if she came up to him, unafraid? All he'd be able to do was back away like a scared kitten. She wasn't there. He looked around him; the streets were empty. He had no idea what time it was; he lived on a relatively quiet street anyway. _But I can't shake the feeling that I'm being scrutinized,_ he thought, still glancing.

He tried his door handle; it was unlocked. He didn't like that; he never left his car unlocked. Hell, that was just asking for trouble. Lassiter couldn't remember if Spencer had said that he'd locked the car after finding the note or not. He pulled the door open and got in the driver's seat, peering into his rear view mirror as if expecting to see someone lurking in the back seat. He sighed with relief when he saw no one. Spencer said he'd found the note crumpled on the floor of the passenger side; Lassiter felt around the floor of the driver's seat but came up empty. He looked at the passenger side and saw nothing. He got out and closed the driver's door, and then opened the door to the back seat, and crawled in, his long legs dangling just outside the door. Lassiter had a strong desire to curl up here and sleep; again, he resisted, and checked the floor. He was backing out when something caught his eye. He bent down, and retrieved a small, crumpled piece of white paper. His palms started to sweat. Lassiter sank down on the seat and unfolded the paper. It was blank.

_Okay, this isn't scary._ He climbed out of the car, locked the doors, and went back inside. Locking his front door behind him, he stepped into direct air redolent with vanilla. Lassiter froze. He sniffed; the scent was thick. _She_ had been here. How long had he been outside? Five minutes? Ten? Less? Wouldn't he have passed her in the hallway? He sniffed again, realizing it wasn't phantosmia; it was a real scent, rather than a ghost scent. Heady vanilla. He smelled her as she bent over him, pulling the gag from his lips.

In a daze, he wandered towards his front window, wondering if she had wanted to see him from his very own window as he had observed her. It was true; she _had_ been here. The air by the window was even thicker and more fragrant with vanilla; its perfume was wrapped up in the fabrics of the curtains. He trembled as he gazed out his window, though saw no one in view, watching him.

Leaning towards the glass, he squinted, hoping to discern a figure that was most likely a tree or a shadow. His left fingers, hovering near the curtains, grazed against a rough surface. He jumped back as if he had been cut. He stared at it with dread, his stomach dropping out. It was attached to the fabric with a red straight pin. Rather than removing it, he squatted down to read it.

#

_Blind palace wants me_

_All shadows haunt me_

_Devil's treasure flaunts me_

_Who else will taunt me_

_#_

_Life's blood leaving my veins_

_Now I lie in my grave_

_#_

_Black water drowning_

_Sad faces frowning_

_Knife's blood is burning_

_#_

He stood up a little too fast, his head reeling. _She had been here._ He felt sick.

Without thinking it through, Carlton got his cell phone and fumbled to remember where he'd put the piece of paper Spencer had written his number on. He couldn't find it, but found that Spencer had already put his name and number into the detective's phone. Lassiter was annoyed by the name Spencer had entered into his contact list, but was grateful for the distraction. Later, though, he'd have figure out how to fix it.

_`O Shawn Spencer, Psychic Extraordinaire :D, _the contact read. Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Idiot," he mumbled, going back to the "create message" screen. He typed in:

_Spencer, found another note. Saw the tires and the words in the door. She was here. _He eyed the note, wondering if he should type some of it into the message. He sighed, and typed, _Here's a preview of what it says: _ _Life blood's leaving my veins. Now I lie in my grave. _Lassiter pressed the "send message" button.

* * *

Shawn scanned the rest of the article, but Lassie wasn't mentioned again. "Jules, did you see this article from the _Santa Barbara Daily_?" he called over to her.

"No," she said. "What page are you on?"

"Three. It's like the fifth or sixth one down."

"Okay, I see it. Give me a second." Juliet read it. "Huh," she muttered. "I've never heard that name before. Cavaliere."

Shawn nodded. "I haven't either. In here it says it's 'prestigious and regal'. Did he just drop off the map?"

"I haven't heard of this detective ever mentioned at the station either," Juliet said. "Adam Marks. Seems like he was Carlton's partner, back before he made Detective."

"When did Lassie join the police force, like 1995?"

Juliet counted back, and then nodded. "I think so. So 1998, or I guess it would have been mid 1996 or early 1997, would have been a really early case. Maybe one of his first big ones."

Shawn peered at her over the computers. "Do you think you could get your hands on any of Lassie's old police records or files?"

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure the Chief would want to know why I'm suddenly interested in them. She's good at her job— she makes it really hard to be sneaky." Juliet rolled her eyes when Shawn smiled. "Except for when you're around."

"Exactly. I could come in, cause a distraction, and then you could—"

"What? Guess the correct file in room of handwritten documents from an age before computers? There are probably a million files down there of both closed and open cases. I think that's a bit out of my department." Juliet dropped her eyes and scanned a few more results. She clicked on one, and started to read.

Shawn sniffled as if he was hurt by her comment. "Okay, well, then I could go down and check and you could—"

Juliet looked up. "It's not that simple, Shawn. You need clearance, you need a reason to be there. There's a sign in sheet."

"But Jules," Shawn eased a whine, "this is important."

She shrugged. "Prove it." Shawn's mouth dropped open in surprise. Juliet set her face. "I'm sorry, Shawn, but that's the reality of it— If I go digging around in Lassiter's files, I'm going to need a reason why, and it has to be more than I think he might be innocent despite all the evidence against him. Vick won't stand for it. I don't want be suspended too. Besides, I can help Carlton better if I keep my job."

"He would be pissed if I got you fired," Shawn muttered. "He would probably kill me. Oh, I mean, not for real. Just, you know."

Juliet winced. "Don't worry about it, that won't happen." She thought for a moment. "You know, we do have a computer database that has cases going back to 1990. There might not be much information in there, but it's worth a shot." She was glad to see Shawn's face brighten. She chewed her lip for a moment. "Shawn, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything for you, Jules."

"Please don't tell Carlton I'm looking into his case, or whatever it is you're calling it."

Shawn was puzzled. "Why not, Jules?"

She seemed flustered, a little bit the way she had been when she'd come in this morning. "It's just— I think he feels like we all abandoned him. And that's not really true, but we can't just sweep unpleasant facts under the rug, you know? If the shoe was on the other foot, and I was the one being accused of this crime, Carlton would have to look at it objectively rather than emotionally."

Shawn nodded, following her thought train.

Juliet picked at a cuticle instead of chewing her lips. "And I do want to help, but I guess, I guess I'm not entirely convinced I'm doing the right thing being here."

"I get it," Shawn said, realizing what she was talking about. She might think Lassie would look down on her, going against her police training and trying to help him because they were friends. He wanted to tell her that she probably didn't have to worry about that, but he honestly didn't know how Lassie would react. Instead, he told her, "Well, I think you're doing the right thing. Lassie does have enough on his mind anyway, so he doesn't need to know about how you want your real partner back."

"Really?" Juliet brightened. "Thanks, Shawn."

Shawn smiled back. "As I said, anything for you." After a few moments, he said, "I'm going to try a new search. It's probably pointless for both of us to look up the same thing."

"Okay," Juliet said, continuing to read an article she'd clicked on earlier.

"Scandal in Santa Barbara!"

_Santa Barbara Daily_, Santa Barbara, CA

September 18, 1997

_"Investigation into candy and trinkets from local vendors has led to shock and horror, especially for the parents of children ages five to fifteen. Maria Canna, the co-owner of El Trinciante, a locally run Italian diner, states that the vending machines are loaded by private companies that she has little to no connect with. Says Canna, 'This is the first time there has ever been a problem. Children should be able to eat a piece of candy without inadvertently ingesting drugs.' She is in talks with her business partner and local town officials to have the machines removed. . . . Says SBPD Officer Carlton Lassiter, 'The gumballs, hard candy, and Hematite pendants all recovered from vending machines outside of El Trinciante, were tested and found to have minor traces of opioids.'"  
_

Juliet's brow furrowed. Of course, this operation had taken place long before her time in Santa Barbara; still, this was the first time she had ever heard about anything like this taking place here. It seemed like big news; well, it probably was then, she reasoned. She wondered how she could casually work this into a conversation. _Did you hear the one about the drug laced candy in the vending machine?_ Right. That wasn't going to work. Maybe she could ask around about Adam Marks. That might be less suspicious, if she could figure out a convincing cover story. Maybe she had run across his name while cross referencing another case, and did anyone know who he was? Well, maybe she could come up with something better than that.

Shawn was a little overwhelmed with the results for what he'd typed into Google. He considered asking Jules to switch with him, but bit his tongue. Roman Cavaliere, showing results 1-10 of 5000. _Geez_, he thought, _who the hell was this guy?_

Several results Shawn saw included _roman cavaliere_ and _psychoactive drugs. _His brow furrowed while he scanned them. He went back to Google and typed in "psychoactive drugs". Reading from a Wikipedia entry, he found that they were drugs that "_act primarily upon the central nervous system where they alter brain function, resulting in temporary changes in perception, mood, consciousness and behavior_. "

Shawn's phone beeped, signaling a new text message. He picked it up, frowning as he read it. He went over it again, more slowly, feeling chilled.

"Gus?" Juliet asked, peering over in his direction.

"Yeah," Shawn smiled for her. "Looks like he's going to be at Central Coast all day today. Too bad, he's missing out on all the fun." Shawn went back to Google and cleared his old search. He typed something in as he scanned his phone's screen. _More lyrics, _he thought with a shiver when the results popped up in less than one second. He clicked on the first result. "So, Jules, you finding anything interesting over there?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of his screen.

Juliet went back to the article she'd found from 1997. "Yeah, listen to this," and she read it to him. Shawn paled when he heard the name of the restaurant.

The gears turned in Shawn's head. The Westside was where that one hardware store owner had sent him; and he remembered Gus complaining that Shawn had gone to snoop around Leadbetter Beach without him. He got a flashback of that bookstore he'd passed by; there were college textbooks displayed in the window. "Is that area— where the restaurant is, an Italian neighborhood?" he asked.

Juliet wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

Shawn shrugged, trying to be causal about it. "I don't know. I just wondered, maybe it was a favorite target of this Cavaliere guy?" She pursed her lips. "Just a theory," he added, running a hand through his hair.

"I think more research is needed to determine that. What have you found out what him?" She looked up expectantly, as if Shawn would be a wealth of information on this subject. He fumbled.

"There's over 5000 results with his name in it," he started. "Lots on the first page have his name and this term, 'psychoactive drugs'." He sighed. "I kind of got off track reading about those."

She sighed. This seemed like a large undertaking. "We need to narrow our search, Shawn."

He nodded. "How do we do that?"

She peered at him, seemingly annoyed that the answer wasn't obvious to him. When he caught her staring at him, his colored a little, wondering if she wanted him to "divine" an answer. Then she said, "Can you ask Carlton about it?"

Shawn's eyes widened. _Oh, right, you idiot,_ he chided himself. He smacked his forehead playfully for her benefit and offered a lopsided smile. "Yeah. That makes sense, huh? Go to the source. But, Jules, what if he's clueless?"

She didn't say anything, going back to her research.

He went back to thinking about the Westside and El Trinciante. If the Westside was where SBCC was located, then Leadbetter Beach was the local college hang out— and both the place where a disoriented Lassie had been found, and where Max Sweets' body was discovered. "Jules— that body found at the beach—"

"Yes?" Juliet was suddenly wary.

"I remember you'd said the guy was shot in the throat, and he must have bled out instantly."

"Where are you going with this, Shawn?" Her tone was tight.

He pressed on. "Was his blood found at the scene? I mean, a wound like that; wouldn't there have been blood all over the pavilion?"

She was silent. He suddenly realized that he didn't know anything about the murder other than what Jules had told him at the hospital and that Lassiter was the only suspect. His stomach felt tight, but he tried to push the bad thoughts out of his mind. It was just coincidence, right? He tried to picture Lassie, even the recently frightened and paranoid Lassie, putting his gun to a stranger's throat. No matter what, he couldn't see Lassie pulling the trigger.

"His body was likely dumped there," Juliet finally said, her voice quiet. "There's still an investigation into where he was killed." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Some of his blood was found at the scene, but it was mixed with sand." She had a look on her face that Shawn read as trepidation; she was jeopardizing her career by revealing these details. She _really_ did want to help her partner. At some point, maybe after they figured everything out, if things ever got back to normal, Shawn thought he should let Lassie know in some way what Juliet had done for him.

"Jules, were there any other clues at the scene, besides Lassie's gun, that prove he was there? DNA? Fingerprints?" He held his breath, waiting for an answer.

She couldn't give it to him. "I've already said too much, Shawn. I'm sorry." She looked kind of sick. "Please, can you keep these details, about the body, to _yourself_?"

"What about Gus?"

She shook her head. "Promise me. I don't want to lose my job. _Please_, Shawn."

He chewed his lip, then agreed. "Okay. I promise. And I really promise you, not like those fake promises I give to my dad." He smiled to prove he was serious. "I don't want you to lose your job either. SBPD really needs you on their side. Besides, remember what I said first thing? Nothing is going to get back to Vick. Seriously, Jules, I swear."

Juliet relaxed. She knew Shawn was telling the truth.

"Jules?" She looked up, her face still a little pinched. "Thanks for trusting me with— that stuff."

She nodded, and then barely caught herself before she uttered, "You're the best." The sentence went under her tongue for use at a later date.

After Juliet left, Shawn listened to the voice mail Gus had left him. He had turned phone on sometime around 9:30 am. Gus called about 9:15; Lassie texted about 9:45. "She was here," Shawn said aloud in the empty office, getting an abrupt chill, as if _he_ were the one being stalked. He looked around before rolling his eyes. Lassie hadn't replied yet; Shawn hoped the detective wasn't freaking out or something. Or in trouble. He sighed. He looked over the lyrics he'd printed out, from a song called "Grave." _How cheerful,_ Shawn thought wryly. Everything was so calculated, sinister. It seemed like someone was enjoying the hell out of making Lassie squirm. Shawn would have to ask Lassiter which part of these lyrics were on the actual note. Lassie texted that he'd seen his car; did that mean that he'd found this newest note in or near the car? "Goddamn," Shawn muttered, and shook his head.

He should probably do more research, but what Juliet had said about asking Lassie first off seemed like the best solution. Was if this was a mislead? What if there was another case involving someone who was of Italian nationality and had it in for Lassie? Shawn didn't want to waste time looking into a case that may not be the right one, especially since this latest note gave him the chills.

_* * *_

Lassiter's _Cops_ text ringtone sang. It was a message from Spencer.

_lassie, i know u liked the pineapple b4 my name in ur contacts! ;) _ Lassiter rolled his eyes, vaguely recalling the stupid symbol. _wtf do u mean she was here?? im looking into what u sent. btw what do u know about roman cavaliere?_

Carlton almost dropped the phone. He inhaled a sharp breath. It had been a long time since he'd heard of or seen that name. He ran a hand across his face, through his hair. At least— ten years. And the last time? Had it been it two weeks, three? It was a small detail, never released to the press. Roman Cavaliere was dead.

_* * *_

Around 10:45 am, on her way out, Juliet's phone rang, and she was surprised to find it was Gus calling. "Detective O'Hara," she said formally. "Oh, hello, Gus." She started to say that she was just leaving the Psych office but bit her lip. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Juliet." He paused, and she heard him moistening his lips. "Uh, look, I don't know if you can answer my question, but I'm not sure who else could."

"Okay, shoot," she said.

Gus laughed a little nervously. "Funny you should say that. I was kind of hoping you could tell me if the coroner came back with a date of death for Max Sweets."

This threw her. She scrunched her face; why was he asking about this? "Gus, does this have to do with Shawn?" When Gus hesitated, she said in a low voice, "I know that you guys are trying to figure out what's going on with Lassiter."

"Right," Gus said, hoping that she was saying that because she'd talked to Shawn recently, and not because it was a guess that he'd inadvertently confirmed. He started to say something about the bruise on Shawn's arm, but she interrupted him.

"I can't really give that information out, Gus, unless you're working on an official case with the SBPD."

"Please," Gus asked, wincing, because he realized he sounded a bit like Shawn. "It's important. I won't tell anyone. Not even Shawn, if you don't want me too. I'm just— I'm trying to figure something out and to know that would be helpful."

Juliet thought this was very odd. She was having a hard time making sense of this out of the blue call. "Well," she thought, mulling over what little bit she and Shawn may have gleaned about Lassiter's recent trouble, "Gus, I don't know off the top of my head. I'm on my way to the station now, so I can call you back. And it's fine, you can tell Shawn." She kicked herself after the words were out of her mouth, because she had just told Shawn to keep his mouth shut about what she'd told him. But then she figured that Gus was the more responsible of the pair, and even less likely to let something like that slip.

"Thanks, thanks, Juliet," Gus said, sounding distracted. "Bye." He hung up while Juliet knitted her brows together. _That was kind of weird,_ she thought. First Shawn, now Gus. She was starting to get a sense that something bigger really was going on. For now, she put it at the back of her mind, and headed to work.

* * *

After his usual morning routine, which included getting dressed in actual clothes, just in case some professional were to stop by again, Lassiter found he was ravenous. He ate some cereal, yogurt, and juice, and then, though already jittery, sipped his coffee. After rinsing the dishes, Lassiter stepped down on something that cracked; tipping back his shoe he saw it was a shard of glass. _Oh, right,_ he recalled, peering down at the glass-water mess on the tiles against the wall, from when he'd lost his temper. He ran his fingers over the small, nearly indistinguishable notch in the paint on his wall. The floor was still dotted with wet spots. He squatted down and started gathering the larger shards, wincing when a small piece slid across his palm. He stood, and tossed what he had in his hands into the trash. He was mildly surprised that the cut didn't trigger a memory; these days, it seemed as if the most minor, ordinary things sent him into an undiscovered country. He frowned hard, the creases showing all over his face, and then allowed his face to relax as he held his hand under a stream of cold water at the kitchen sink.

_"Pooh, why does he haveh blood all over him?" the young woman asked, looking a shirtless Lassiter over. Sea air in his nostrils, grit of sand on his feet. Something wet on his chest, hands. Lassiter remained still, the blood soaked t-shirt balled up in his hands. She went to him; he had a faraway look in his eyes. She peered up at his face and ran her fingers across his cheek. Her fingers came back wet. "Tears, _caro_?" Lassiter was frozen and unable to speak._

_A man who was in his mid-thirties and six feet tall shook his head, glancing at Lassiter with disdain. His face blurred, and then the man spoke, "Your _giocattolo_ tried to save his life. With that shirt." _

_"How noble," another man sneered, giving Lassiter a hard look. His face was perfectly clear; he was older, sterner, with weathered skin. He looked stocky but muscular, strong. The man made him nervous. "Donia, clean up Mr. Lassiter, and get that shirt back on him." _

_"Come along, _caro_," Donia said, linking her hand into Lassiter's. She pulled him towards the small bathroom, and he stood still while she washed the blood smears off his chest. She took the t-shirt from his hands, uncrumpled it and called for Marstey. Or Mars? Marty? Mart? A huge hulk of a man appeared in the doorway, his bulk taking up the small room. Lassiter stared at the meathead's large, skull crusher hands and shivered._

_"What is it, Donia?" he sighed._

_"Put the shirt back on him. I cannot reach way up there." She pointed to the top of Lassiter's head; he was over a foot taller than she. She handed him the bloody shirt, and then pressed Carlton's hands under a steady stream of water. The blood ran over his fingers and turned the porcelain of the basin deep red. _

_"Donia, where is the shirt he was wearing—" Sound rushed in his ears; the man continued to speak but all Carlton could focus on was how icy the water was. He wanted to pull away but his arms wouldn't comply to his wishes. Though the blood had seeped into the fabrics of the shirt, a bit of it stained the hulk's fingertips. _

_"_Non lo so_," Donia mumbled innocently. _

_Mars groaned and rolled his eyes. "_Ho paura di avere cattive notizie per voi_," he began._

_She punched his arm with her tiny fist. "I will not—" She pouted but broke into her closed mouth smile. "I keep it, _si_, _di nascosto_ ." She winked at him. "Ah, Marte, it smells like him!"_

_"Questa situazione sa di trappola," Martey mumbled with a frown, hard lines creasing his face. He roughly jerked the t-shirt over Lassiter's head, and forced the detective's limp arms through the sleeves. "You cannot get yourself attached to him," he told her. He petted her hair. "He will not always be this compliant, you know."_

_"Oh, but I want to keep him."_

_"You can't, _mi carissima_ Donia," the older man said from outside the bathroom. Lassiter's eyes darted towards the door, but the man didn't come in. "_Tenere a mente_," he paused for breath, "_é morto di una morte dolorosa_." _

Carlton yelped, an angry, dissonant reverberation, and yanked his hand from the water. Water dripped onto the floor while he stared at his fingers, now purple with cold. He got a dish towel and dried his hands, then cursed. He was shaking bad, but forced himself stay calm. Rationally, he tried to think through the idea of being hypnotized. Maybe if he was, he could get the rest of that memory. Or another one. Maybe he could finally make some sense of all these pieces. He was resolved to talk to Spencer about it without threatening to call Henry.

Spencer had taken the journal, but Lassiter got out one of his notepads he used for cases and flipped to a blank set of pages. He started to write, leaving nothing out, writing as quickly as his fingers allowed. He didn't want to forget a thing, especially since he'd garnered two names, well, at least one and the possibility of another. He wrote big question marks around the foreign words, which he'd scrawled in phonetically.

_Donia._ This was the name of the young woman. Lassiter went to his front window and looked out, a little wistful that she was nowhere in sight. He tried to say her name aloud, but it stuck in his throat. If this was her first name, then could Notte be her surname? He forced the words out of his mouth; the sound was a croak.

"Donia Notte." He ran a hand over his mouth.

*** * ***

"Hey, Burton?" Gus looked up to a young man knocking on his office door at Central Coast.

"Hey, Jimmy," Gus greeted, straightening up some papers. Jimmy worked in the chemical testing lab. "Whatcha got there?"

Jimmy walked in, a thick stack of papers in one hand. "I'm playing messenger today for Greg Motgemery." At this, Gus eyed the papers with sudden intensity. Greg Motgemery was Gus's discreet source, the one who'd agreed to run the test for toxic residue on the glass Shawn had retrieved from Lassiter's apartment.

_Gus hadn't told him all the facts, just that he'd needed to keep it as quiet as possible. "You know, Burton," Greg had told him, "paperwork will still have to filed. There will be a record of it, in your name."_

_Gus had waved it off with an eye roll. "Yeah, I know. But it's a favor for a friend, and I just can't seem to ever say no to him."_

_Greg's eyes narrowed a little. "This have anything to do with your childhood best friend? The one who's always talking you into crazy things?"_

_Gus had to smile, picturing Shawn's antics that he really did always get dragged into. "Is that okay?" Gus asked tentatively._

_Greg sighed. "Good enough for me." He'd taken the glass in its two plastic bags and studied it. "And you have no clue what may have been in it?"_

_Gus had shaken his head no. _

_"All right. Depending on my free time, we should have preliminary results in three to four days, full results in about a week."_

_"Shit, that's fast," Gus had said._

_Greg had smiled. "Yup, advances in technology. Do stupid things faster."_

_"I hear that," Gus had nodded. _

"Oh, yeah?" Gus said now to Jimmy, keeping his tone causal. "He's a lucky guy."

"Damn straight," Jimmy said with a smile, running a hand through his sand colored mop.

"So all that's for me?"

"Uh-huh." Jimmy went to Gus's desk and handed over the papers. "No clue what any of it is, though. He just said that the prelims were in and that you'd probably want to see them."

From his confused tone, Gus figured that Jimmy hadn't looked over the results at all. He gave the lab assistant-intern a smile and thanked him for his trouble. "Hey, it's no problem, dude. You stay down there too long for any given amount of time, breathing those fumes and you end up seeing white rabbits. Greg says eventually I'll get used to it and—"

"And not 'see' them anymore," Gus finished. He grinned.

"Damn," Jimmy said with a head shake. "He says that to everyone, doesn't he?" He turned to leave. "Wait, don't answer that."

"Thanks again, man!" Gus called. Settling back in his chair, he began studying the preliminary results. The first few pages went over the basics, such as who had asked for these results, where the source had come from, and then there were drawings of the chemical compound, its name, all aliases, and side effects. After the first few pages which he read carefully, Gus flipped the rest of the pages with wide eyes, and his gut tightened into a cold knot of dread. He couldn't believe what he was reading. He went back to the beginning, going over each word.


	14. Chapter 13: Only So Far You Can Go

**Chapter Thirteen: There's Only So Far You Can Go When You're Living In A Hallway That Keeps Growing**

**___________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer:  I credit Wikipedia for its information regarding a certain benzodiazepine derivative. I do not own references to Edgar Allan Poe's _The Tell Tale Heart. _Once again, I do not own lyrics to Hungry Lucy's song _Grave_. I do not own the theme song to _Cops. _I do not own any references to _The 12 Days of Christmas_ song. I also do not own references to _The Shining._

Author's Note: (For the end of this chapter): I just want to let my readers know that I promise I am not going to go all _"Law & Order: SVU (Special Victims Unit)_" on you. That subject matter (of that show) is not what this story is about . . . should your minds run wild. (Which is fine, if your minds do run wild; adds intensity. ;D). The characters themselves might wonder about it for a little while, but I swear that is not the direction I intend.

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Test run by: Greg Motgemery

Test run for: Burton Guster

Source: empty water glass. Source was swabbed for residual trace; trace found most prominent on bottom of glass, also on sides. Residue found to contain nearly twice a normal dosage.

_Flunitrazepam_

**C**16**H**12**FN**3**O**3

_Classified as a nitrobenzodiazepine_

FDA considers this an illegal drug in the United States of America.

Marketed as a _hypnotic drug_ and has _sedative, anticonvulsant, __antianxiety__, amnesic, hypnotic and skeletal muscle relaxant properties._

_Oh. My. God,_ Gus thought, wondering if Greg's findings were somehow mistaken. But Greg was the best; he knew exactly what he was doing at all times. Gus ran a hand over his mouth. Detective Lassiter was forced to swallow this before he had been abducted. A while ago, when he'd first started reading, sweat beads began to march across his skin. This was very important but very dangerous information, Gus knew all of a sudden. He stood up abruptly. _I have to make copies of these pages_, he thought. _Just in case. _

He hesitated in his quest as his eyes ran over the lines:

_Flunitrazepam may have a paradoxical reaction in some individuals causing symptoms including anxiety, aggressiveness, agitation, confusion, disinhibition, loss of impulse control, talkativeness, violent behavior, and even convulsions. Paradoxical adverse effects may even lead to criminal behavior._

Criminal behavior? What if, as the result of being given this, Lassiter had turned to murder? But then Gus read another part again:

_The effects of flunitrazepam last for approximately four to six hours. Some residual effects can persist up to 12 hours or more after administration._

_When had Max Sweets' been killed?_ Gus counted back the days. Sweets' body had been found on August 5, but had they released a date or time of death? He'd have find that out. And if any blood was found at the scene. Lassiter had been reported missing midday of July 31, and then found on August 2. But it seemed like the body wasn't found until after Lassiter had been admitted to the hospital. Lassiter had been arrested on the 7th, after the body was identified and the gun traced to the detective. So, Lassiter had been abducted sometime in the night of July 31, drugged then . . . so that meant the drug should be out of his system sometime around mid-morning, midday August 1. _Syringe._ Right, Lassiter said he was given something else. _So, if the first drug made him sleep, what did the second drug do? _Gus wondered, hoping it had nothing to do with shooting some innocent man.

Without completely thinking it through, Gus dialed Juliet's number and asked for classified police information. He felt a little guilty doing it, knowing that Shawn had a bad influence on his behavior sometimes. _Maybe it's a good thing,_ he reflected, after hanging up the phone. Shawn's persistence seemed to get _him_ somewhere; Gus could only hope to have similar luck.

After he'd read the stack of papers three or four times, Gus was got up to make copies. In urgency, he hurried down to the copier and made two sets of copies from the twenty pages results. Gus took both sets back to his office, meaning to take them home later, but realized he had to do those demo runs this afternoon. Swallowing some pride, he got up from his desk and slipped the two copies in his bag. Gus tucked the original prelims in a desk drawer, and left a note on his door that read:

_Left some product info packets on my kitchen table, need them, going to get them. Be back soon._

_—B. Guster_

This was just in case one of his bosses happened to walk by. Gus kept his face relaxed and neutral on his way out, making small talk with coworkers about meetings or new products whenever he had to, but none of them seemed concerned that he was leaving the building so early.

Gus drove to his apartment, feeling like he had the telltale heart in his bag. He got out of the car and opened his front door, making sure to the lock it behind him. He took one set of the copies and rolled them up into a tight tube and hid them with a roll of promotional pharm. posters he'd received at work in the back of his closet, behind a pile of old clothes he rarely touched. The second set he left flat, stuffed into a plastic bag for safe keeping, and then pushed it into a broken wall vent behind his bed. He used this as a safe, since it was virtually hidden from sight and useless as a heating or cooling unit. Collecting himself, he was calm as he went out the door, trying to make up a plausible story for his absence on his way back to work. He got back in with barely any notice, and the rest of the day was uneventful. Before leaving for the demo runs, Gus remembered he still had Greg's premlin results. He picked up the phone to call, and opened the desk drawer where he'd left the pages.

The pages weren't there. Gus's palms started to sweat. He closed that drawer and opened another, thinking that he may have been mistaken about which drawer he'd left them in. None of the drawers, nor the space on top of his desk, held the results. _Where the hell are they? _he thought with dread, doing his best not to panic. Who would possibly be interested in these results . . . who even knew about them? Himself, Greg . . . that was all, right? Unless Jimmy was included, and hadn't been as clueless as he seemed. Gus searched his office with no luck. He got up and went to his door, tentatively glancing down the hall as if the culprit were still hovering, watching him. He scowled and went back inside. This was no time for paranoia. He looked again, but still came up empty handed.

Finally, his responsibility gene kicked in and he called down to the lab, and asked for Greg. He was told that Greg left early; some kind of family emergency. Gus felt sick, and sank down in his chair. Maybe Greg had already been up here and retrieved the packet himself. Or sent Jimmy for it. _Why not leave me a note, then?_ Gus asked himself. _Maybe . . . it was more discreet not to?_ Gus swallowed his fear; he had to get ready for the demos. This whole thing was going to have to wait until tomorrow.

_* * *_

Detective Samuelson knocked on Chief Vick's door. He was surprised, though he concealed it well, to see her resting her head on her propped up elbows, staring into space. She straightened curtly, her mouth pinched. "Detective." She regarded him with her full attention.

"I wanted to inquire about Lassiter's interrogation, ma'am."

Vick sighed, "What about it?"

"Well, will it be continued?"

Vick looked into the space ahead of her, though her mind replayed the events of that first interrogation. Lassiter slumped over, resembling a person near death— she frowned deeply, hating the way that image came to her— then, Carlton's lawyer screaming at her and accusing her of coercion, of abuse. Coercion on her own Head Detective. _Suspended,_ she reminded herself. Looking Samuelson in the eyes, she sighed again. "I'm sorry, Detective. Not yet. I want to send the psychoanalyst for another pass; she suggested that if he were to be questioned again, both she and Mr. Oswley would be present."

Samuelson's forehead creased. "That can't be normal procedure." He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response.

Vick resisted the urge to smirk sardonically, or throw Samuelson out of her office. "These are not the usual circumstances, Samuelson," she said in a low, authoritative voice which made him stand up straighter.

"Ma'am, I wasn't suggesting—"

Vick held up her hand. "Explanations are not necessary. But I'm sorry," she repeated. "A second interrogation will have to wait." She dropped her gaze though she could still feel his frustrated stare. _I'm not playing favorites,_ she thought defensively, as if Samuelson had asked the question aloud.

Though she imagined it took him a great deal of control, Karen heard Samuelson comment neutrally, "I understand, Chief," on his way out. He eased her door closed so the lock popped a little. She had been going over her conversation with Dr. Rhodes for the past day and a half; admittedly, Karen _was_ worried. She was getting more worried that there really was something larger than "convenient amnesia" going on with Lassiter— but she couldn't just halt the murder investigation to figure out what it was. Karen had a strong desire to go see him in person; the last time she'd seen him had been that awful day at the station; he had appeared so haggard, so betrayed. She feared she might take that look on his face to her grave— at least, it may haunt her for some time to come.

That awful day was the second time she had ever observed him faint since she'd started at SBPD as interim Chief almost four years ago. Recalling both times chilled her; there had been many brutal crime scenes over these years, and SBPD officers put in the hospital with life threatening injuries, and through it all Lassiter remained in control, stoic, unflinching. A rock. He was not the type of man who let his emotions slosh about; well, even this late in the game, Vick had to admit that, besides the uncharacteristic reactions Lassiter had presented, very little, other than anger or hurt, tightened his face. She truly missed the authoritative, persuasive man who barked orders, whom other cops looked up to with both a respectable fear and an unwavering admiration. _How could this man be gone in such a short period of time?_ a little inner voice asked. Her mind flashed to a specific part of her conversation with Dr. Rhodes.

_"I believe your detective experienced a trauma. Its dreams, or whatever the correct terminology maybe, perhaps, memories, are putting a terrible strain on him, both physically and emotionally. His body reacts to the stress by fainting. . . . you need to admit that Detective Lassiter was kidnapped, which is traumatic enough, and that something terrible occurred while he was in the hands of his abductors."_

"Something terrible," Vick said aloud, her voice thin among the few possessions within the space of her office. Dr. Rhodes had then gone onto admit that she, after meeting Carlton only once and hearing his side of the story, believed in him wholeheartedly. What was this doctor seeing— as well as Oswley, for that matter— that she wasn't?

Vick knew O'Hara was more than concerned; she wasn't her usual pleasant self; her temper flared, her lips often in a hard line. It was as if she knew something was wrong but couldn't put her finger on it, or do a thing about it.

Still, Karen couldn't ignore the facts. Even if, in its slimmest possibility, Carlton had been abducted the way he said he had, he was still implicated in the murder. It was his gun with his fingerprints on it at the crime scene. His ammo found lodged in the victim's spine and the victim's blood all over the ripped t-shirt witnesses saw him wearing before he collapsed. The simple fact that he was wandering the same beach where the body was dumped. And what about Lassiter's reaction to Samuelson's question that he may be the shooter but be unable to remember? She shuddered, recalling Lassiter's skittishness after he awoke, glancing around and behind him as if being watched. That day it seemed nothing would ever bring him around. O'Hara's and Samuelson's voices bouncing loudly off the walls, his name, again and again, and "Wake up!", shaking him. Not even smelling salts worked. Ten minutes that seemed to last two hours. This incident was too closely matched to the day—

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. She had been so concerned with the state of things of late that it just occurred to her that she hadn't seen hid nor hair of either Mr. Spencer or Mr. Guster, not since that day that she, O'Hara and Shawn had had to break down Lassiter's door. What could be keeping those two so busy that they had no need of hanging around the station?

Karen did not want Lassiter to be guilty, but this case was not about what she wanted. Part of her hoped this was all some huge misunderstanding or sick practical joke, but until someone came forward, with evidence, and explained it to her, she had to keep her guard up. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty room.

_* * *_

Carlton, having finished smearing antiseptic on his small cut, stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His blue eyes look back, full on, solemn, introspective. The text message he'd received from Spencer had been nagging him. How in the world could he have come to that conclusion— that somehow, Roman Cavaliere was involved in . . . all this? Lassiter shook his head, and said firmly, "It's not possible." He liked hearing himself say the words— they grounded him; he liked the heaviness of their fact.

Maybe, just maybe, he could give his old partner a call, old time's sake— he shook his head again. _What the hell would you ask him?_ he scoffed at himself. _Gee, Adam, are you absolutely certain, as in 100 percent certain, without a doubt, that Cavaliere is in the ground? Have you heard differently?_ He clenched his teeth and scowled at his own idiocy. There was no way in hell he would ever do that, not to himself, or to Marks. Hell, Marks would probably slam the phone down in his ear.

Lassiter let his mind wander back to the trial, the day of sentencing in particular. Both he and Adam Marks were present, both having testified more than once against the defendant. Cavaliere hadn't said one word to either of them. He hadn't given them a snide glance or scowled with his eyes or made any gesturings that mimicked death, such as drawing a finger across his throat or shaping his fingers like a firing pistol. There hadn't been a single threat coming out of the man's mouth. No . . . it was eerie, Carlton recalled, sitting next to Marks and his fellow SBPD colleagues in his pressed dark blue police uniform. Cavaliere had not exhibited a single emotion— not anger, fear, or remorse. He may, just following the sentence, have seemed deflated but the stone face remained. Lassiter recalled that Marks had cursed; the sentence should have been death, not merely life in prison with no chance of parole.

Lassiter tried to remember if any from the Cavaliere family had made any threats; he couldn't. After the sentence was announced, the courtroom had exploded with weeping; but it came from all sides— the many victims' families weeping for justice served, and possibly the Cavalieres weeping in disgrace of their fallen son. He remembered his reckless sneer just after the judge announced Roman Cavaliere to be led off by the bailiff to begin his sentence, which his partner had caught and set his face back to neutral with one stern look. _Hell, I was just a kid, _Carlton remembered, silently defending himself as if Marks were seated at his right in the courtroom pew at this moment.

_Well,_ Carlton thought sourly, _I couldn't call Marks even if I wanted._ He was too ashamed to have one more person, especially the man he'd so respected as a young officer, also questioning his sanity. _This isn't you,_ he could almost hear his old partner scold, _making such outrageous claims without any evidence to back them up. Did you learn nothing from me, kid?_ He winced. Okay, so it seemed any kind of reminiscing lately was the most unpleasant action other than experiencing pain.

Lassiter turned off the light and went towards the kitchen, catching the latest note still pinned to the curtain out of the corner of his eye. He tried to push down the twinge of unease as the note's sentences flooded his mind, and swallowed two of the pills he'd been taking steadily to dull the pain in his wrist. _What would Marks say if he saw these notes? Or Vick, or even O'Hara? Stupid,_ he scoffed. He already had an answer picked out that they would all choose immediately: obviously, wanting to ensure that his "abduction story" was plausible, he had written them himself. He shook his head again, trying to let his mind go blank, but words hovered.

_What if— could they—? No. Don't be so—_ The words flashed as Lassiter thought about Spencer's mention of Cavaliere. _Life's blood leaving my veins. Now I lie in my grave._ A jab of panic, then the prickly sensation on the back of his neck. _Don't turn around._ He needed to banish the dread before it could engulf him, before he was a shaking huddle on the floor. He had never had anxiety attacks before. There were always gruesome cases every now and then that still made his stomach flip, or bit him at that raw emotional level that he was unaccustomed to knowing that well. And sure, sometimes bad dreams would linger after particularly nasty cases . . . . but _then_, he hadn't experienced any such thing.

_Who else will taunt me? _Carlton smacked his open palm on the counter, trying to get a grip. He was annoyed with himself. He started making another pot of coffee to keep his hands busy, carefully measuring each scoopful and adjusting the water accordingly. His mind wandered back to the conversation he'd had with his old partner the day the news hit the station.

* * *

_August 26, 1998_

_"Will there be an investigation?" twenty five year old Carlton asked Adam Marks, then a man of medium build with a touch of gray to his flat brown hair. Marks was shorter and less lean than his young partner, as well as fifteen years his senior._

_Marks smiled, making the lines around his eyes crinkle. "You don't have to worry about that," he said, patting his partner's shoulder once. His young partner looked eager, ready for anything at a moment's notice, which Marks appreciated. "You're going to go far, kid," he liked to say, to him. "With your toil, and great need for success, you helped crack this case wide open. Imagine, your first— helping put away a notorious slime ball drug lord who terrorized Santa Barbara for all these years— a creep who always managed to worm out of charges."_

_"A team effort, sir. That's what life's all about," Carlton interjected politely, with a small smile that wanted to turn into a grin, but then he grew solemn. "But sir, this, uh, incident— it's not—"_

_Marks squeezed his shoulder. "It's not anyone's fault. These aren't things you can just monitor." He paused. "Justice works in mysterious ways."_

_"Sir?" Lassiter's eyes opened wide, but waited for his partner to continue. _

_"All I'm saying is that we did our job. We caught the bastard and got him locked up for good— off the streets, away from innocent kids. What happened— well, it's not in our job description to make sure prisons are 'safe' for criminals."_

_"Yes, sir," Carlton said with respect. He regarded his partner with the rigid posturing of a recent Academy graduate, though he was still getting used to the idea that he'd been an actual police officer for a little over two years now. Having more than assisted to put away one of Santa Barbara's most dangerous criminals, he was confident for his next case, whatever it should be. _

_Marks added, "This case is in the ground— literally." He started walking down the hall, Lassiter keeping his up stride. "This is going to open many doors for you— your diligence, your hard work, the stake-outs where you put off sleeping for 48 hours at a time. Everything you did— officials of Santa Barbara will sit up and take notice. Have you thought about your future?"_

_"Yes, sir," young Lassiter answered immediately. "I'm willing to work harder, put away more SOBs, and never sleep, if that's what it takes. I want to make Head Detective, sir. But you know that."_

_"Yes," Marks chuckled. "You've been telling me that since the first day you were assigned as my partner." _

_"It's what I still want. I'm determined to achieve my goals, sir."_

_Marks nodded, smiling warmly in admiration of Lassiter's high aspirations. "Well, I have faith that you won't give up. For some detectives, they work twenty years or more before attaining promotion. Are you in it for the long haul?"_

_Lassiter nodded. "Yes. This is— this is what I'm meant to do with my life. Serve and protect." _

_Marks fixed him with a calculating eye. "Now, you know that being a cop doesn't necessarily make you some kind of superhero."_

_Lassiter's face was more serious. "No, I understand that. It's just— this case, all the hard work put into getting that scum bag locked up— it felt damn good, sir." Lassiter patted the center of his chest, and Marks nodded. "It just felt right— but I don't think I'm any kind of hero. I'm just doing the job I was meant to do." _

_Marks' face opened up again, and he grinned. "Just testing you, kid. I know you're damn good at this job— you're a natural. I'd predict that, if you keep up a steady case load at the level of the Cavaliere case, you'll make Head Detective in no less than fifteen years." He held his gaze on Lassiter to make certain his young partner wasn't getting an inflated head, but Lassiter took this comment with a respectful twinkle in his eyes. _

_"Thank you, sir." _

_"Your rate of success up to this point was stellar— that's why I specifically requested to the Chief that you were ready for more responsibility and that you were more than capable of working the Cavaliere sting." Marks laughed again. "And I was right."_

_* * *_

Carlton heard the coffee pot shut off. He sighed. The aroma was thick and bittersweet. He hoped it would cancel out the vanilla perfume that seemed to still dance in the air before his front window, which he'd opened to help dispel the scent. He got a mug and poured himself a cup, careful not to spill any on the counter.

The pad of paper where he'd written his latest memory still sat on the edge of the island; he grabbed it and took his coffee to the couch. He took a sip, and then set it down. He flipped to the pages and reread them, stopping when he read that the man who had spoken to the woman— _Donia_— had said, _"Your geocatoelow tried to save his life with that shirt."_ _'Tried to save his life',_ Carlton blew out an audible breath and pushed his shoulder blades against the back of the couch. _Could that be—?_ A wave of red blurred his vision, as if he had his eyes against a panel of stained glass. When it didn't abate, he wiped furiously at his eyes. _Please,_ he implored whatever may be the cause of this to stop. Instead, the color deepened to vermilion, and he closed his eyes to stop seeing it.

Involuntarily, he wiggled his toes inside his shoes. He could feel— _his soles bare, warm, granules of sand clinging to the hair at his ankles. Waves crashed— to his left, but somewhat at a distance. Seabirds called out, maybe a handful, dipped against the gray-blue water— oh, he could see the water. He watched the birds with detached interest; the sun half hidden behind some white clouds. Ocean air wafting into nostrils, grit of sand on his feet. Fumbles of human voice wove into his hearing of the birds' _caw caw caw_. A roar, no, it was a bark. Or a snap. A crack? Loud, very, very loud. He jumped, heard a muffled cry, then gurgling. A hand grabbing his hand, forcing it around the shape of an object, solid, black, hot— familiar, he realized. He dropped it, rushed forward, offering red to stop up the red-black that was all over, as if a volcano had erupted. _

A phone rang. Carlton wondered distantly where it was coming from. He pushed himself up from his couch— _when did I go to sleep?_ He realized he had a splitting headache, and the phone's shrill ring wasn't helping any.

_What if this proves you are innocent?_ The sentence slid across his mind clearly; Carlton opened his eyes wide. _That's right._ That was the thought he'd been trying to finish— the phone shrilled one more time and then stopped. Lassiter wiped a hand across his face, then reached for the pad. The images weren't as clear as other dreams or memories, but he put down what he could, right below the memory he'd had while at the sink.

He could already hear the words coming out of Spencer's mouth: "Like a river of blood, splashing all over everything? Like in _The Shining?" _Lassiter frowned with annoyance at the probable gleam in Spencer's eye as he made yet another movie reference.

_Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do . . . _Lassiter got up, recognizing that ring. He found his cell on his night stand, and answered it.

"Why the hell aren't you answering your phone?" Shawn snapped before the Lassiter could even say his own name.

"How did you get my home number?" Lassiter shot back, a deep frown on his face.

Shawn made an exasperated sound. "Lassie, the spirits work in mysterious ways."

"So help me, Spencer," Lassiter warned. There was a sharp knock at his front door.

"You didn't text me back," Shawn whined.

"Because what you asked— it's not kind of thing I can sum up with some stupid symbols," Lassiter snarled harshly. He wandered out to the front room. "Are you at the door?"

"If I say no, are you still going to answer it?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes, and then pressed the "end call" button out of sheer spite. It felt good— a little nocuous too, but mostly good. He still couldn't figure out how Spencer had come to this conclusion that Roman Cavaliere— it was insane.

There was another knock, and then Lassiter recognized the obnoxious sound of slurping liquid through a straw. "I'm not going away, you know," Spencer called from the other side of the door. "I don't know how you think talking like this— through the door, Lassie— is easier than a text message."

Shawn heard Lassiter unlock the door with some kind of barely veiled curse. Shawn took another slurp of his smoothie; he'd found the vendor where Juliet must have found the pineapple drink. Shawn nodded smugly as the door opened, but the expression slipped a little when he walked through the door frame and was hit with the strong fragrant vanilla; he flashed back to that night Lassiter had first pointed out the woman that he remembered, and when Shawn had chased her through the darkness, the air all around that night this same scent. Shawn hadn't thought that much of it, but here it was. Then his eyes went straight to the note pinned to the curtain of the front window.

"Geez, you found it inside your place?" Shawn asked, his eyes still focused on the paper. He went towards it. He set the plastic cup down on the end table with the land line and the house arrest box monitor.

"Yeah. Turns out she was watching me— from inside, this time." Shawn heard Lassie try to keep his tone dull, but could still pick up small infusions of disbelief and fear. Lassiter sighed. "Spencer, where the hell did you hear that name?" Reluctance now.

Shawn was reading over the note. It was honestly more scary in person. He turned slowly, an eyebrow raised. "What name would that be?"

"Roman. Cava. Liere," Lassiter pronounced slowly, as if with each syllable, he were spitting nails.

"Oh," Shawn said. "That name. Well, it's a funny story actually." He glanced at Lassiter, who had that "I'm-going-to-kill-you" look plastered all over his face. "See, it starts with me and— the spirits Googling 'Notte'. You know what that word means, Lassie?" It was too bad he couldn't tell the older man that it was Juliet who had opened this door because she had been the one who questioned the nationality of the name. Lassiter's mouth wasn't moving, because his face looked like cut stone, so Shawn continued. "It means 'night', in Italian. So, cleverly, I deducted that if I put your name into Google with the word 'Italian', I would get a solution." Of course, there were a more steps than that, but Lassiter didn't look like he was in the mood to hear them.

"You Googled me?" Lassiter asked, the stone facade breaking a little for disgust. "That was your great plan?" Carlton actually had to laugh, he couldn't help it.

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Did you hear me? 'Notte' means 'night' in Italian. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"What the hell does that have to do with Roman Cavaliere?"

Shawn swung his backpack around to his front and pulled open the first zippered pocket. He pulled out some of the articles he and Juliet had found during their initial research. The one on top was from the August 1998 _Santa Barbara Daily_. Lassiter took them, scanning them with a vague familiarity. He shrugged.

"Well?" Shawn prodded. "Anything?"

Lassiter sighed. "There's a huge flaw in this solution of yours, Spencer."

"What's that?" Shawn grumbled, feeling that Lassiter was deliberately trying to hold back.

"Let me get this straight," Lassiter changed the subject, "you think that just because 'Notte' has an Italian reference, and because Cavaliere was of Italian nationality, that he's the only possible criminal who might—"

"No," Shawn snapped again. "I wanted to find out from you if this guy was a lead or a dead end, Lassie. You know, before I wasted a bunch of time looking into the wrong person—" Shawn froze, his mind going back over the words Lassiter had just said. "'Was'? What do you mean, 'was'? Is that with an 's' or a 'z'?"

Spencer caught him off guard. He sputtered, now just realizing his slip. Lassiter had wanted to see if there could be any validation to what the kid may be saying— possibly, there may have been some kind of threat from the Cavalieres that he just couldn't remember . . . more than ten years had passed since then, after all. Lassiter sighed. "Yeah. Cavaliere's dead, Spencer."

"What? Are you sure?"

Spencer was so solicitous that Lassiter dropped the hard look in his eye. "Yeah, I'm sure. He was— killed in prison. He was supposed to do life; ironic, I guess, since he got death."

Shawn listened to Lassiter's strangely faraway tone, as if Lassie were speaking to someone other than him. "Why do you really think that—"

Shawn held up his head. "Can you tell me about the case? Who was this guy, Lassie? The one article I read said he was a drug lord who specialized in psychoactive drugs, but he never got caught because he was always hiding behind his well-known family name. Then when I Googled him, I got over 5000 hits, but none of those were more current than September 1998. How come I've never heard this name before?"

Lassiter nodded along, trying to be patient. He couldn't see how telling Spencer about the case had any real bearing on his current problems, but he figured Spencer wouldn't drop it until he relinquished the details. He drifted to his couch, and took a sip of the now cold coffee. Spencer didn't sit, but stood near the front window as if still looking at the note. They'd started the investigation in mid-1996, when Carlton had been twenty-three. "It was my first big case, the first one with responsibility, with too much at stake to even consider failing. They brought me and my former partner, Detective Adam Marks, in after they'd been at it for sixth months with pretty much a stalemate. Said they needed some new blood, new eyes. From the time I started work on it, I don't think I slept more than three or four hours a night for almost a year. The whole thing, from start to finish, was intensive, intrusive. But every second of frustrating crap paid off— we nailed him to the wall with condemning evidence." Lassiter paused, savoring the hard police work of this first important case from so many years prior for a few seconds. "Cavaliere had been at this kind of thing for years— he set up his first drug labs sometime during the mid-80s, though he was underground, most of his dealings on the black market."

"What was the drug of choice?" Shawn interrupted. He was still looking out the window, listening.

"Experimental stuff. Psychoactives mixed with psychostimulants, like LSD with amphetamines. The side effects of these mixes of course hadn't been studied, so there was no way to predict what the lasting result of the drugs on any person's system was going to be." Lassiter closed his eyes, his old anger rushing back. "Cavaliere's favorite target for human experimentation was children— quicker reaction, the desired hysteria, and then there was always the chance that the adults in the children's lives wouldn't be able even tell anything was wrong. He was a sick bastard."

"And it took the SBPD almost twenty years to catch him?"

Lassiter shot Shawn a sharp look. "Cavaliere and his drug rats were too smart for too long— they knew exactly how to cover their tracks, how not to leave a paper trail, when to move their labs to another abandoned hotel basement, when to fall back and cower behind that name." He scowled. "The Cavalieres used to be a powerful family in Santa Barbara in the 1980s and early 1990s."

Shawn's eyes widened. He spoke before he could stop himself. "Like the mafia?"

"No," Lassiter snapped. "There were not mafia associated. The Cavalieres were wealthy, towering, but for the most part, pillars of the community. They held many benefits for charities, they sponsored the arts, they offered scholarships and internships from the company they helped found— Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, actually."

"That's where Gus works," Shawn mumbled, more to himself. He cleared his throat. "So he was the only black sheep then?"

"I guess you could say that."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "So what happened after Cavaliere's conviction? Did the family just— vanish?"

"They were proud people. They valued older traditions. One of their own had shamed them, had defiled their good family name. The Cavalieres sold Central Coast and moved on— to a place where they were unknown, to start over."

Shawn let out a low whistle. "That's harsh. One of those articles said that Roman Cavaliere was a— he killed kids."

Lassiter nodded. "Scum bag. It wasn't direct— like opening firing on a crowded playground, but it was just as goddamm bad." Lassiter clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. "After some experimental batch of drugs had been produced, Cavaliere's workers would bring in filler for candy or prize machines— then they would coat them with the drugs and have their 'private company' fill these machines, up and down Santa Barbara."

Shawn nodded, his memory flashing over the article he'd read about the vending machines in front of El Trinciante. "Was the Westside a place Roman Cavaliere controlled?"

Lassiter thought hard, trying to clear his head. "Not exactly, but during that time it was a less affluent area than now—"

Shawn heard the echo of the hardware store owner's words in Lassiter's. "Geez, then it must have been a falling down dump—"

Lassiter opened his mouth to say something but closed it, remembering suddenly that that was the area where Spencer had been attacked. _It could just be a coincidence,_ he reminded himself. "That's basically the whole story, Spencer. The trial was agonizing, listening to each family whose children were affected by drugged gumballs or poison infused jewelry, and then listening to Cavaliere's high powered lawyers trying to rebuke all the evidence against him. But we had 18 months of solid proof— it was over for him fast." Lassiter stopped, realizing how true and untrue that statement was.

Spencer was oddly silent. Lassiter peered over and saw that he was reading the note again. Shawn turned his head. "I really thought I had something here. Can you remember anyone— was it a large family, Lassie? Maybe some of them—"

"Oh," Lassiter mumbled. "Uh." He tried to pick out their faces in the courtroom, but he had only seem some in passing. Surely some had been only friends of the family? "I can't remember. The only time I ever saw them was in court, but I wasn't counting them out."

"You think she was standing here a long time?" Spencer sounded almost wistful.

Lassiter stiffened. "I don't know. I don't want to know."

"Lassie, what if this latest—" Shawn flicked the note. "What's if it's some message to get you to remember Cavaliere?"

Lassiter frowned. "Spencer, the Cavaliere family is gone from Santa Barbara. They were pariahs here after Roman was found guilty." Though, hadn't he wondered over this possibility earlier?

"The 'shadows' mentioned here could be the SBPD closing in on him. The 'devil's treasure' could be the pleasure he took in committing crimes against innocents," Shawn spoke hurriedly, attempting to continue his theory. "Then this part here about the grave, someone wants to remind you of his death—"

Lassiter turned slightly. He tried to make the best sense of what Spencer was saying, though Spencer's interpretation was chilling to him. "Or taunt me into expecting mine soon," he mumbled coldly.

Shawn ignored him. "This last part about the 'sad faces frowning' and the 'knife's blood burning'—" Shawn was about to joke about how the words seemed to be a demented version of that carol, _The 12 Days of Christmas_, when he got sight of how deadly white Lassiter's face had gone. "Lassie, what?"

The image of Spencer with his face cut up rushed back to Lassiter, unbidden. Spencer, with blood dripping down his arm, yelling at him, "You did this!" He heard a different voice, a cool purr, say, "You did this," with a little laugh. _Donia._ Then he heard her say, "And what happens if you talk to police?" "Something bad," Lassiter mumbled aloud. "Something bad."

"Lassie! Lassie!" Shawn shook Lassiter's shoulders frantically, trying to get the older man to awaken. Lassiter's eyes were rolled back in his head, but not closed, so Shawn could see whites of his eyes. Shawn admitted that it was seriously creepy. Lassiter seemed to be in between two worlds. His body was slack, all but his neck, which was tilted over the back of the couch. When Shawn tried to move Lassiter's head, his neck remained arched. _God, I hope this isn't a seizure,_ Shawn thought, trying not to freak out.

"Donia," Lassiter murmured.

"What?" Shawn cried, shaking the detective more.

"Something bad. Something bad," Lassiter murmured. Some inner hold released, and Lassiter's entire body went slack and he crumpled forward. Shawn's mouth dropped open but he was able to catch Lassiter before the man's forehead slammed into the coffee table.

"Lassie?" Shawn asked louder. He pushed Lassiter back to the couch and then let go. Lassiter was still for a few moments; his eyes slowly opened. He noticed that Spencer was pacing, his mouth pulled into a tight line across his face. "What?" he started to ask, but Spencer cut him off.

"Who the hell is Donia, Lassie?"

"Don—" Her name stopped on his tongue. "How did you?" _Why am I so groggy?_ he wondered.

Shawn threw up his hands. "You were just, like, passed out for five minutes, Lassie." Shawn frowned. "Don't tell me you don't remember!"

Lassiter frowned back with a dour expression. "How dare you," he began in a low snarl. Had he blacked out? He couldn't remember a thing.

"Who the hell is Donia, Lassie?" Shawn repeated louder, his eyes flashing.

"Donia Notte." Her name was out of her mouth before he could stop it. Spencer paused mid step, one foot in the air. "She's— I got this memory earlier, when I was cleaning up glass." He scrubbed a hand over his face, and then put his hand on the pad of paper, and held it out to Shawn. "Here."

Shawn just stared at it for a few seconds, then plodded over and took it, but didn't open it. "She's the one from the station? The one who cut you? The one I chased?"

Lassiter nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.

"And when were you going to mention this?" Shawn asked, his voice raising with anger.

Lassiter looked up, momentarily surprised, but kept his cool. "I just did."

Shawn opened his mouth to scream profanities, but closed it quick. He felt overwhelmingly tired, and for once, unwilling to argue. He tossed the pad to the floor. "It was such a mistake, me trying to help you," Shawn spat. "What was I thinking? Gus tried to tell me. One of these days, I should start listening to him."

Lassiter was stunned, but kept his mouth shut. He let his face go blank.

"I mean, I almost get kidnapped, and you're still holding things back. Ugg!" Shawn clenched his teeth hard. He strode to the door, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

Lassiter got to his feet. "Spence—"

"Save it," Shawn shot back. "Deal with your stupid problems yourself." Lassiter winced when Spencer slammed the front door shut.

Anger and regret washing over him, Lassiter sank back down to the couch. Very slowly, the dream he'd had came back to him. Why did he keep seeing that ghost image? _Life's blood leaving my veins, Now I lie in my grave. _He hadn't recalled it until just now, but he wanted to spare Spencer that disturbing image anyway. He got up and picked up the pad from the floor, and retrieved the note and pin from curtain. Lassiter opened the pad to a blank page and pinned the note within. He sighed. He hadn't meant to keep anything from Spencer— since the kid had been so determined and insistent that he was also involved. "Well, maybe this is for the best," Lassiter said passively. "Keep him out of trouble— out of my trouble, anyway," he amended.

_* * *_

Juliet's mid-morning and afternoon were swamped, so she didn't have any free moments to check the computer databases. When she got a chance for lunch around 4 o'clock, she grabbed a meal bar out of her desk and ducked down the back stairs, headed for the room where pre-computer documents, closed case files, and cold cases, were filed. Juliet tried to come up with a plausible excuse why she was going down there.

"Hey, Charlie." Juliet smiled gratefully when she saw that Charlie, who was in his sixties and retired from field work, was the only person at the desk just inside the doorway to the files room. She kept her smile in place while signing her name.

"Hello, Detective O'Hara," Charlie said, his wrinkled skin crinkling into a smile for her. "What can I do for you today?"

Juliet paused, looking over his shoulder into the room with its various shelves stacked high with boxes. _That's a good question,_ she thought, feeling a bit overwhelmed. Charlie cleared his throat, and her eyes went back to his face with an apologetic look. "Sorry, I . . ." _Too late to chicken out now!_ she encouraged herself. She started with the simplest question. "Charlie, do you remember a Detective named Adam Marks?" Juliet started to add a time frame when she thought the detective would have been here, but Charlie's face lit up with dormant knowledge.

"Sure I do," he told her. "He was a detective with the SBPD for fifteen years." The man nodded, more to himself than to Juliet, she thought. She started to ask what happened to him, but Charlie supplied her with the information. "Yes, I certainly remember him. His last case here was that whole thing with that bastard Roman Cavaliere." Charlie frowned when he said Cavaliere's name, but then offered her a small smile. "Much before your time, Detective. Actually, Adam Marks was partnered with Detective Lassiter then— if I recall correctly, Lassiter was only about twenty-three or twenty-four at the time."

"Really?" Juliet's eyes were shining a little. Her partner seemed to talk so little about his early years; it was just nice to hear something about him. "You say that that case was Detective Marks' last here?" Her eyebrows arched pointedly.

Charlie chuckled, running a hand over his thin, steely gray hair. "Because of Marks'— and Lassiter's— performance on that case"— it wasn't lost on Juliet that Charlie tactfully did not mention Cavaliere's name— "Marks was promoted and transferred to the LAPD's narcotics division. Lassiter was still only an officer, but he exerted so much effort into putting that bastard in jail that it really got him noticed around the station."

Juliet nodded, imagining that this case was the springboard for launching Lassiter's career as Head Detective. Charlie confirmed her thoughts a few seconds later. She wondered if she would be pushing her luck if she asked Charlie to describe some of the case with her. "What kind of case was it?" she asked tentatively.

"Drugs," Charlie said, a glint in his gray eyes. "This creep they took down— Cavaliere— he was more than just a creator and distributor of unusual drugs."

"Oh?" Juliet asked, raising her eyebrows.

"He was a sociopath, if you want my personal opinion, Detective. Bastard got more pleasure out of handing out drug laced sweets to kids than the actual production of the drugs." The deep frown had returned to Charlie's face, making him look ten years older. "Hell of a case. It's really no wonder Lassiter shot straight to the top after that. Kid really proved himself— now he's Head Detective and all." Charlie looked at her conspiratorially. "Can you keep a secret, Detective?"

"Um, sure," Juliet said, her eyes focused on his face.

"I think this murder charge that got him on is a bunch of hooey. I know Lassiter. The kid's no killer."

Juliet nodded, feeling a warm sensation in her chest. It was little strange to hear Lassiter referred to as a "kid", but Charlie referred to anyone younger than himself as a "kid". Her answering smile was a little more than polite. "Thank you," she told him, very softly.

Charlie's eyes twinkled but he didn't respond to that. "You know," he said after a few moments, "the only thing that they weren't able to prove in that case was Cavaliere's connection to Central Coast. It seemed blatant— after all, his family owned it. Easy access to any combo of drug cocktails he could possibly want."

"I'm sorry, did you say Roman Cavaliere's family owned Central Coast? The Pharmaceutical company?"

"Certainly did," Charlie confirmed. "But after all of Roman's law troubles, they sold it. Whole family moved away, except him, since he was stuck in maximum security." Charlie saw the look on Juliet's face. "You gotta understand, Detective, the Cavalieres were too proud for their own good. Roman shamed them; from their point of view, there wasn't any coming back from that."

"Wow," Juliet muttered. She had never heard of such a thing before.

"Here I am, talking your ear off. Was there a file I could help you find?" He gestured behind him at the massive collection of white boxes.

Juliet itched to read through Lassiter's files on Roman Cavaliere, but knew that it wasn't something she could pull off without more of a solid purpose. Juliet suspected if she wanted to find out more, she was going to have to do her own research without aid of Lassiter's old case files. She had been lucky that Charlie had given her as much as he had. She shook her head slowly, glancing at her watch. She pretended that it was later than she had figured, and then thanked him for his conversation. He nodded and didn't push why she was leaving without seeing any files.

"Oh, the hospital," Charlie called out when Juliet was in the hall. She turned back around and appeared in the doorway with a quizzical look. "I'd almost forgotten," Charlie began, "the Cavalieres also had a wing at the hospital."

Juliet's brows knitted together. "At Santa Barbara General?"

"Yes," Charlie said, his face all lit up with remembering. "But after the trial, patients and their families complained. The whole fiasco produced enough bad press that Santa Barbara General actually removed the Cavaliere name from the wing, for some undisclosed sum." He paused, dropping his voice conspiratorially again, so she had to lean in to hear him. "Detective, would you like to peruse the case file?"

Juliet stood up straight, her cheeks flushing a little. She realized she had no business being down here, except for simple curiosity. "Ye—no," she said with a firm shake of her head. "But thank you for all your help." She smiled politely and took her leave.

Upstairs, she ducked into a break room and unwrapped her meal bar. As she chewed it, she let her thoughts wander back over her conversation with Shawn. Was going to him really a good plan? She sighed. She did have faith in SBPD's head psychic; he might be the only one able to prove Carlton innocent. She hoped Shawn could. Juliet wondered if he'd had a chance to talk to Lassiter— maybe something had been revealed that would prove helpful. _I'll give Shawn a call tomorrow,_ she thought,_ if he doesn't drop by first._

_* * *_

Karen Vick was on her way out of the station for the evening when Buzz McNab nearly collided with her. He was holding unmarked VHS tape and an 8 x 11 manilla envelope in one hand. "Sorry, ma'am," he said hurriedly. "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

Karen stifled a sigh. "You were looking for me?" she asked, looking up into his dark brown eyes.

He nodded. "About ten minutes ago, an anonymous tip came into the switchboard. It was patched through to Officer March." As he explained what the unknown person had said, Karen felt her jaw slackening.

"Well, was this checked out?" she asked curtly, trying her best to keep the disbelief and surprise from her face.

"Yes, ma'am," Buzz continued. "This VHS and a packet of banking statements and lists of pharmaceuticals, with his name on all the documents, were dropped off in an unmarked envelope. Officer March watched the tape; ma'am, he says it's pretty incriminating."

Vick took the tape and the envelope from his hand. She stared at their blank surfaces as if they could offer some kind of explanation. "Go get O'Hara and Samuelson. Tell them to meet me in Screening," she ordered and Buzz nodded, turning to find them. She went into one of the screening rooms and popped the tape into a VCR. She watched the tape three times before O'Hara poked her head into the room.

"Chief, you wanted me?"

Vick motioned her into the room. She rewound the tape, and then summarized what McNab had told her. Vick suspected that the look O'Hara wore was very similar to what had been on her own face earlier.

"That can't be true," Juliet said, her eyes wide. Vick handed over the envelope. Juliet pulled out the stack of documents, her eyes scanning everything wildly. _How can any of this be possible? I know him. Don't I? _"Is this really his signature, Chief?"

"We'll have to look at comparison handwriting samples— there must be some around the station. God," Vick sighed. She put her hand on her forehead. "It's too late tonight to get a warrant. First thing tomorrow morning."

Juliet tensed. She had hoped there would be some time to offer a warning— though she knew, in good conscience to her job, that she couldn't really do that. She and Vick watched the tape while they waited for Juliet's new temporary partner to be found.

"But, the person"s dressed all in black, Chief," Juliet pointed out quietly, staring at the screen. "Even the face is covered. How can we be sure it's him?"

Vick's mouth twitched. "We can't— but those documents alone are enough for a warrant, O'Hara. You know that."

"Yes," Juliet demurred. Worry prickled at the back of her neck. She knew something was wrong, but she had no proof to back up that what she was seeing was anything other than she had been told.

_* * *_

All the way on the drive in the next morning, Gus went over every inch of his office in his head. Surely, a thick packet of twenty pages could not just vanish. He resolved to throw himself into one more full search before calling down to see if Greg had returned from his family emergency. Gus was puzzled to see two SBPD patrol cars parked in front of Central Coast. One of cars' red and blue lights were flashing, but he didn't see any officers in the car. He discovered that this was because they were in the lobby, four of them, all unfamiliar faces wearing the SBPD police uniform. Gus noticed they were speaking to a small group of his coworkers; once he entered everyone turned towards him, familiar and unfamiliar faces of mixed emotions: anger, confusion, blankness. Gus started to ask what was going on.

"Burton Guster, I'm placing you under arrest for grand theft and embezzlement from Central Coast Pharmaceuticals." He must have misheard; the small crowd clustered near him, intrigued or shocked; it was impossible to tell because their faces were suddenly a blur around him.

"Wha—what?" Gus squeaked. One of the officers was cuffing his hands behind his back. "Wait, wait," Gus blurted out. "I didn't— I'm not—" He looked up then, into the faces of his coworkers; they seemed to be strangers to him. Gus was hit with an odd deja vu; what he was seeing on his colleagues' faces was very similar to what he had seen of the expressions the SBPD officers wore that day at the hospital when Lassiter was arrested: from disbelief to smugness. He heard a few voices mumbling to each other, "Anonymous tip." He was calling out to one of his bosses, whom he had glanced standing nearby. "You know me! I didn't do this! Please!" Two officers were leading him out of the building, reading him his Miranda rights, though they might has well been speaking Sanskrit.

* * *

"Can I get my phone call now?" Gus implored to the officer processing him. They hadn't even asked him any questions yet, so he thought he could hold off on calling a lawyer. He was still detached enough from his own body to let his mind fill up completely with rationalization. It was just— a misunderstanding. Yeah. When Shawn got here, he'd— _Shawn. Oh, god._ _This is—_ Gus was struck stupid as a torrent of thought rushed through his head.

Somehow, he managed the call, thankful that Shawn picked up the phone rather than letting it go to voice mail. Shawn expressed relief at hearing from Gus and started to rant about how angry he was with Lassiter's behavior and how he was going to let him deal with proving his innocence on his own before Gus got the words he needed to say out. After the call was over, Gus congratulated himself on staying so calm, though, suddenly, he wanted to huddle in a corner on the floor, catatonic. _I can't believe this is happening_. He rolled his eyes. He was both angry as hell at Shawn for not dropping the case, though he reflected how selfish this thought was, and scared as hell as to what might happen to Shawn now, now that Gus was locked up. _I got too close to something big—_ Gus felt a minor flash of worry for Lassiter. After all, the missing results proved that Lassiter _had_ been drugged, and with something not just potent but illegal. _Oh, god. _Gus fretted over his best friend. _I can't let him drop the case, not now, no matter how annoying he thinks Lassiter is acting, _Gus thought. _The guy's just . . . scared. Who the hell wouldn't be?_ Gus looked around the cell, disbelieving that he was actually inside it_. _He suppressed a shiver.

Shawn told Gus over the phone that he was going to Vick, or at least Juliet to straighten this out and then he would be there. Vick wouldn't see him; Buzz actually had to drag him out of her office because he was yelling at her like a child.

"Shawn, you have to calm down," Buzz insisted, having pulled Shawn down the hall towards the stairway leading to the holding cells. "You're not going to be able see Gus if you get yourself thrown into a cell for civil disturbance."

Shawn didn't stop struggling, though his angry cries at Vick had died out shortly after he realized Buzz wouldn't be releasing him. Juliet appeared, her small face pale and tight. "Come with me," she said quietly, gesturing for Buzz to follow and bring Shawn. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Juliet disappeared into the stairwell. Buzz let go of Shawn as soon as they were at the stairs, and he practically jumped the length of the steps in his search for Gus.

Gus was in the middle cell at the end of the hallway. His eyes sparked a little when he saw Shawn, but he braced himself for what he had to do.

"Gus, what's going on here?" Shawn yelled in confusion. He ran right up to the cell, Juliet and McNab just behind him. He waved them angrily back.

Gus stood in his jail cell, up against the bars. "Shawn, I didn't do this. I didn't steal any drugs." Gus's voice was hushed; he was still not over the shock of being arrested.

"Is that what they're saying you did? They wouldn't tell me anything!" Shawn's voice was high pitched and dangerously loud. He flung himself around, staring accusedly at any police officers he laid his eyes on. "Gus is not a thief!" he yelled. "You made a mistake! Now open the door."

"Shawn," Gus whispered. He reached through the bars and grabbed his friend's wrist. "You have to calm down."

"Me?" Shawn swung his head back towards Gus, his eyes flashing. "No way! You've been framed and you want me to just stand here, silent—" Gus suspected that Shawn's voice could be heard upstairs. He urgently shook Shawn's arm.

"Please, Shawn," he whispered again, making Shawn lean in close to hear him. "I need to tell you something."

Shawn opened his mouth to ask what, but Gus pressed a finger against his own lips to signal Shawn to keep his voice down. "It's important," Gus whispered. He waved Shawn in closer, still holding onto him in case Shawn got skittish and tried to bolt. He spoke right into Shawn's ear.

"Shawn, I got the preliminary results on the glass. Remember?" he added discreetly. Shawn nodded, so Gus continued. "I was shocked, Shawn. I wanted to tell you right away, but I knew they were important, so I made copies."

When Shawn tried to speak, Gus shushed him. "Not yet, just wait. I made copies and hid them. Good thing, because my source didn't get a chance to file the full results— the prelims were—ugh, I don't know what happened to them." He dropped his voice even lower. "I left them in my desk, but then I left the office. Later, when I looked for them, they were gone."

"What?" Shawn whispered back. "Gus, what are you saying? What was in that glass?"

Gus's lips vibrated against Shawn's ear and Shawn's entire body went tense. He pulled away with look of utter shock. Gus nodded, and again mouthed the word.

"Rohypnol."


	15. Chapter 14: There's A Darkness, Deep

**Chapter Fourteen: There's A Darkness, Living Deep In My Soul, It's Still Got A Purpose To Serve**

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Author's Note: I just want to note that though I am half Italian, I do not actually speak or know any myself. I took Spanish classes in high school, so I'm kind of working off of that language for "pronunciation". This chapter contains some of "Lassiter's" phonetic spellings of Italian words and phrases that he has "heard being said" in his memories. So if any of you out there do speak/ know Italian and want to giggle at my "phonetic spellings" of the words, go right ahead. I do know that the Romance Languages, Spanish, Italian and French have similar (though not the same) word bases since they all come from Latin. but I'm in no way any expert.

Also, sorry if there are any errors in this chapter. It's longish, so it took me a long time to edit . . . and then guess what happened? Ff dot net told me I wasn't logged in, so I lost all my editing. It's also 4:30 am right now and I wanted to go to sleep hours ago, but I'm doing my best to finish this process anyway. As always, I appreciate my reviewers!

Italian Vocabulary (credited to Wordreference dot com): Orchidea = Orchid; Angelo custode = guardian angel ; Farsela sotto dalla paura = scared shitless; L'ho fatto per il bene di tutti noi = I did it for the good of all of us

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Shawn had to press a hand over his mouth to keep from yelling the word. Gus gestured him close again. "There's more," he said in a soft voice. He glanced through the bars; Juliet and McNab were still close, but it was unlikely they could overhear his conversation with Shawn. That was, as long as Shawn managed to keep his voice down. He whispered the basics about the drug, what its purpose was, the side effects. Shawn's face looked blank, so Gus really hoped Shawn was listening. Shawn tried to say something at the end but it came out as little more than a squeak.

"Don't speak, just listen," Gus whispered. Shawn nodded, his hand against his mouth again. "I made copies of the prelims as soon as I read them." He spoke directly into Shawn's ear, telling him where he'd hidden the copies. "You need to take them somewhere safe, okay?" Gus gave him a meaningful look. Shawn's heart raced so quickly he thought it would burst in his chest.

"This is my fault," he murmured to Gus, his expression miserable. "Gus, I'm so sorry."

Gus shook his head, looking at the cops out of the corner of his eye.

"This is another message," Shawn said, his voice getting a little louder. "Like the picture. My arm. The—"

"Keep your voice down," Gus insisted.

"Because I didn't back off—" His voice was a miserable whine.

"Shawn," Juliet interrupted, glancing at her watch.

"Three more minutes. Two," Shawn pleaded to her. "Please." He bit his lip to keep from crying. What the hell had he done? He'd gotten Gus involved even though Gus— and Lassiter— kept warning him not to investigate, and now Gus was in jail. "This happened to you because— the test— I shouldn't have given it to you—"

"Shh. It's all right." Gus was struggling to maintain composure in his cell. Shawn's arms were shaking, though he didn't seem aware of it. It almost seemed as if the skin holding Shawn's molecules together was going to come apart. Gus gulped down the grim image.

"I'm so sorry," Shawn choked, turning to Gus. His face was turning red. "I'm—"

Gus shook his head fiercely. "You need to listen to me." He looked Shawn right in the eyes and held his friend's gaze, though Shawn seemed ashamed. "Shawn, you can't stop."

Shawn gasped, and blinked furiously. He couldn't believe he'd heard Gus right. "What?" he whispered back.

"You can't stop. Are you listening to me?" Gus urged. He reached through the bars and squeezed Shawn's arm again. "We _need_ you. You're the only one who can help us." Gus raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Do you get me? You can't stop."

"But—" But hadn't only bad things come from Shawn trying to help Lassiter? Lassiter had been arrested on murder charges, Shawn had possibly almost been abducted, and now Gus— Shawn wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"Shawn, you were right. _This_ is important. You tried to tell me." He sighed. "Shawn, focus." Shawn looked up and listened with disbelief to what Gus was telling him. "You're the only one, Shawn. You know that this is connected to— him. You have to give him a break—" Gus picked up on the irony of his own words, which he saw written all over Shawn's face. "I know, I know what I said before. But the damn stubborn man needs your help, and so do I, all right?"

"If I help him, you think it'll help you too?" Shawn's voice was thick but soft.

"We're both locked up— you're the only one on the outside now." Gus nodded with all the trust he had in the world for Shawn. "But please, please be careful— just take care of yourself, okay? Try not to put yourself in— you know, Shawn." All Shawn could think of was how he damn well better not let his best friend down. "Oh, and can you call me a lawyer? There should be a business card for a firm at my place."

_* * *_

"Can't you tell me anything?" Shawn pleaded to Juliet and Buzz as he followed them back upstairs. He didn't want to leave Gus, but he knew that his friends had taken a risk sneaking him down there.

When they reached the top of the stairs, the trio clearly heard Vick bellow, "O'Hara!"

Juliet motioned for Buzz and Shawn to stay back, and she emerged from the stairwell alone. She moved with confident purpose. "Yes, Chief?"

Shawn winced when he heard Vick berate Juliet for not keeping better control of "Mr. Spencer."

He felt a smile on his lips when he heard her say, "Oh, is Shawn still here, Chief?" as naturally as if she really didn't know of his whereabouts.

"I"m counting on you," Vick said, jabbing her finger in Juliet's direction, "to keep Mr. Spencer's nose out of this case. Mr. Guster is his friend— the case is too personal. Besides, we need real detectives doing real police work here."

"Yes, ma'am," Juliet demurred.

Shawn scowled, hearing Buzz mutter, "Ouch," before throwing an apologetic glance over his shoulder to Shawn. "She doesn't mean that, Shawn," Buzz told him.

"Yeah, sure," Shawn mumbled back. Buzz grabbed Shawn's arm when he tried to shuffle past the taller officer.

"Ow," Shawn cried out before he could stop himself. Buzz had unwittingly gripped the still bruised sensitive area around his left elbow. Shawn covered his mouth as Buzz let go with a concerned look flashing in his dark brown eyes.

"Shawn, what's the matter?" Buzz began.

Shawn managed a watery smile. "Gee, Buzz, you don't know your own strength." Shawn was suddenly uncomfortable with the worried way Buzz was looking at him. He winked at Buzz once and took a deep breath and then leapt out of the stairwell into the hallway and launched into a tirade aimed at Buzz but purely for Vick's benefit. "Fine, fine!" Shawn howled. "Keep me from seeing my best friend! You're completely heartless!" He swung his face towards Vick, who stood in the hallway a few feet down, her face tight and her arms crossed. Juliet stared at Shawn worriedly, especially after Shawn sank to his knees, balling his fists up against the side of his head, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He pretended he was experiencing a painful vision. "The spirits are warning me that you have made a horrible mistake! Aw-ohhh!" Shawn cried out. His fingers started to wiggle. "Burton Guster is innocent! He was— what, what's that you're saying? Oh, of course, I knew that!— he was set up!"

"Mr. Spencer!" Vick bellowed. Her voice so loud that most of the regular activity around her paused. Shawn opened one eye to see her scowling unattractively over him. "Don't think I won't have you banned from this precinct!" Juliet rushed to his side suddenly.

"Shawn, I think you need to leave," Juliet told him tersely. She tugged his wrist and Shawn reluctantly got to his feet. Buzz appeared in the hallway and the two of them escorted him to the front doors.

Once they were out of range of Vick's earshot, Shawn whirled towards Buzz. "Sorry about that, dude," he apologized with a small toothy smile. Buzz nodded but still eyed Shawn's arm. He looked like he wanted to ask Shawn about it, so Shawn quickly thanked them for allowing him to see Gus, and then added, "The spirits are right— Gus is blameless of this crime." Neither Juliet nor Buzz offered a reassuring expression, but Shawn continued. "He is! The spirits don't make this stuff up! I'm just the medium they channel through—"

Juliet held up her hand. "Please call me directly if you get the urge to stop by the station," she told him seriously. "The Chief is not kidding. You can't offer Gus any support without a cool head. And if you try anything—" She shook her head, as if giving him ideas. "Don't try anything."

"Right, easy for you to say. Your best friend wasn't just thrown in jail for no good reason," Shawn sniped, feeling a little bad for taking out his frustration on her, especially since it wasn't her fault.

It was his. _Or Lassiter's,_ he reminded himself with a frown, getting a fresh burn of fury about the detective's— what? What _had_ Lassiter done? Withheld important information? _Or maybe he just didn't have a chance to tell you yet, dummy,_ a small voice piped up. _Stop defending him,_ Shawn argued back to himself. _He doesn't deserve any help._ Shawn's slow burn rage was starting to ash inside him. He recalled the night he and Gus had discovered that a photograph of Shawn had been sent to Lassiter— and Lassiter's insistence that the two of them back off for their own protection. Shawn's anger started to fade. He remembered how pissed off he'd been that evening— but his anger had been directed at the strangers who had taken the picture rather than at Lassiter's attempted concealment of it. Lassiter had told them, _"I don't want you getting hurt because of me,"_ and Shawn had shot back, _"Did _you_ deserve to be hurt?"_

Lassiter had seemed pretty forthcoming about his Cavaliere case, though Shawn could tell by the way Lassiter's mouth had twitched that there was something the detective wasn't telling him. Shawn had no idea if it was an important detail or a minor one.

Maybe it was a misunderstanding. It was hard to stay pissed when Shawn knew how scared Lassie really was— the detective shrugged on his usual tough guy face, but Shawn had read through the journal— he'd listened to Lassie talk about everything he remembered. And he'd witnessed Lassie faint more times than he could count— well, at least three or four times, but that was a lot. Hell, once was too many. Besides— Gus had told him to cut Lassiter some slack. And he had just told Lassie that one of these days he was going to have to start listening to his best friend.

"Don't imply that I don't know what you're going through," Juliet snapped, bringing Shawn out of the past. They were outside the doors, and Buzz wasn't with them.

Shawn's jaw dropped open, then tightened. "Jules, you don't really think of Lassie as your—"

"He's my partner, my colleague, and my friend, Shawn," Juliet told him with her mouth pulled into a tight line, her chin pointed towards him.

Shawn paused, staring at her severe posturing. He sighed finally. "Yeah. I know. I know, Jules." When he saw her hand coming towards his left arm, he flinched, and then kicked himself.

"I wasn't going to hit you, you know," she told him gently, patting his wrist once.

"Sorry, Jules. I guess I'm just— jumpy." He opened his eyes wider, running a hand across the back of his neck. "You think you could, um, well—"

She raised her eyebrows. "Give you a neck massage?"

Shawn's face relaxed into a small smile. "Well, now that you mention it—" She was starting to turn back to go inside, and it was his turn to grab her arm. "Wait, Jules, what's the official charge? For Gus."

Juliet sighed. "Grand theft and embezzlement." She paused and glanced around the make sure they were alone. "It was an anonymous tip to the switchboard yesterday night, Shawn."

"That said Gus was guilty?" Shawn's eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. "And that's all—"

"We also received an envelope of bank statements in his name. Heavy duty, overseas stuff," she added barely above a whisper.

"I can't— I just can't believe Gus would—" The color had drained from Shawn's skin. _Why go to all that trouble to fake something like— No._ "No. Gus wouldn't," Shawn added firmly. "He's got a good job— besides Psych, I mean. Gus isn't greedy like that—"

"One more thing, but I never told you any of this, okay?" Juliet whispered, leaning in closer. "Along with those statements, we got a videotape that shows a figure in head to toe black carrying a bunch of boxes with the Central Coast insignia on them. Chief says—" Juliet hesitated, but pushed ahead. "Shawn, I think the person on the tape is too tall to be Gus."

Shawn leaned back, his brow so knitted together that it was starting to hurt. He didn't know what to make of what she had just said.

"I've got to go now, Shawn. Call me later if you need someone friendly to talk to." She shot him a meaningful look, and then disappeared back inside.

* * *

Shawn stood outside alone, feeling stupid. He glanced at his watch; it was just past 11 am. Though he kind of felt like emptying his stomach into one of the bushes in front of the station, he got on his Norton and headed for Gus's apartment on auto pilot. Since he'd been run off the road a few years ago, he was usually more aware of his surroundings, but today his emotions were running too high to really give the drive the concentration it needed. Shawn pulled up in front of Gus's apartment, intact. He took in some deep breaths while going up the walkway.

He let himself in with the extra key Gus hid in birdhouse hanging on the porch. He didn't feel at all connected to his body except for the fact that guilt and remorse kept yanking him back into his brain to curse him out. _How could you do that to you friend? What were you thinking, Shawn? Oh, that's right, you weren't. You idiot. Idiot!_

_Fantastic_, Shawn thought, this was a warm-up for when he went to see his father. Henry was the last person he wanted to see, but Shawn realized these were desperate times. He couldn't really trust his own apartment, though he hadn't yet had any incidents there involving Lassiter's stalkers/ abductors. _But just in case. _He went into Gus's apartment and went to his friend's bedroom. Any other time, he would have been giddy enough to snoop, but today, even idle thoughts about Gus's privacy felt empty. Shawn found the documents Gus had rolled up and hidden with some posters. He glanced at them briefly and then tucked them under his arm. He left everything as he found it.

* * *

Shawn sped to his father's house, taking the drive recklessly and with even less concentration than before. He let his thoughts run on and on until they dissolved into the air whizzing by him. Standing on the front stoop, Shawn pounded until Henry jerked the door open angrily.

"Are you trying to break down my door, kid?" Henry demanded.

Shawn nudged around his father and walked into the house. "Are you deaf?" his father yelled at his back.

"Look, Dad, you still have a safe around here somewhere, right?" Shawn asked, ignoring Henry's shouts.

"I haven't seen you in over a week and this is the first thing you say to me?" Henry seemed itching to fight, but Shawn wasn't in the mood to take the bait. He rolled his eyes, and thought of what Gus had said to him to stabilize his words, keeping them at even pitch.

"Dad, look, I've been working on a case, okay? It's been taking up a lot of my time." He continued to scan for where he thought he'd seen a safe. Henry didn't speak, as if he expected Shawn to bother him with a bunch of details so he could help his slacker son with his latest endeavor. But all Shawn repeated was his earlier question.

Henry held onto his anger but threw up his hands. "Yes. Why?"

Shawn swung around so he was facing his father. Henry actually took a half step back after he gazed at his son's face. "What's wrong with you?"

"Look, Dad, I can't tell you too much, okay? Can you please lock these in the safe and not let it spill to anyone that you have them?" he implored, shoving the rolled up papers towards Henry. "Please, it's important."

Henry looked at the rolled up papers Shawn was holding out towards him, but didn't take them. Stubbornly, he crossed his arms. "Let me in, kid," he insisted.

Shawn growled, and rolled his eyes, but forced his feet to remain planted on the floor. "Dad," he said through clenched teeth, "this is important." When his father remained still like stone, he burst out, "It has to do with Gus. He was arrested today."

"What?" Henry's eyes shot open as if they were window shades lifted too quickly. "Arrested? _Gus_? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. He was in jail— in the Santa Barbara holding cells." He sniffled and fought back the angry-sad reaction from earlier. "It's serious, Dad. But he's completely innocent."

Henry's eyes narrowed again. In his book, "completely innocent" seemed hard to come by. Even for Gus. "What's the charge, Shawn?"

"He's been accused of stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of Central Coast pharmaceutical prescriptions and selling them to overseas buyers. Dad, they have all this evidence against him, and Juliet said it looks really bad." He shook the papers, and his father took them finally.

"So what do these have to do with Gus, Shawn? Did you steal these from the evidence against Gus?"

"No," Shawn cried. God, this was all too hard to explain. He wished his father would take them without playing twenty questions and just stick them in the safe. "I can't tell you all the details, okay, but the case Gus and I were working on involves Lassiter." Shawn held up a hand to dam up Henry's torrent. "Just shut up and let me talk, okay?" he insisted. "I'm sure you'll yell at me all you want later. Lassie was framed for murder, and I sort of volunteered Psych to help him. He was— freaked out. He's in over his head. Things were okay, then kind of scary for me." He bit his lip at his impulse, but pulled off his jacket and pointed to his arm, but didn't elaborate.

"How the hell did that happen?" Henry cut in angrily. "Did Lassiter do that to you? I'll kill him."

Shawn ignored him, and continued, "Lassie asked me to have something tested for him, so I asked Gus, because, for reasons I can't explain to you, going to Juliet or Vick is out of the question."

"Shawn," Henry warned dangerously, eyeing his son's arm.

"So Gus had it tested in a lab at Central Coast, and these are the results. Well, these are copies. The originals were misplaced before Gus was arrested." He rolled his eyes at his father. "And no, Lassie didn't beat me up. It's, um, it's kind of a long story. Basically, I was checking a lead and even though I thought I'd taken precautions, well," he pointed to the bruise, "well, it looked a lot worse three days ago, anyway."

"Tell me what happened to you or I'm going to burn those documents."

Shawn's eyes flashed angrily and he tried to snatch them away from his father. Henry pulled them out of Shawn's reach, and tucked them under his arm. "Shawn." Henry flung his name back to him like a rock.

"God, Dad," Shawn muttered, exasperated. "Like I said, I was chasing a lead, and I was in this alley and someone grabbed me from behind, okay?"

Henry moistened his lips and drew his mouth into a tight line. "And?"

"And nothing. I'm standing here, aren't I?" Shawn snapped. "The only thing that happened was that I almost peed my pants. Some creep grabbed my arm, but it was fine, I got away." He ran a hand across his face and cradled his left arm protectively.

"Got away," Henry repeated, the gears in his head turning. "Got away." His chest suddenly felt cold, and he reached towards Shawn's arm. "Please," he said more gently. Shawn allowed him to examine the bruise. "Shit," he whistled. "That's a goddamn hand print." Shawn winced; he'd really hoped it had faded by now so that it wasn't distinguishable as a hand print anymore.

Shawn realized his father was coming to the same conclusions as Lassie: that whomever had grabbed him had likely intended a kidnap. He knew he had to throw his father off of this train of thought. "Look, I didn't have to show you that. But I made a snap decision that you wouldn't fly off the handle about it. It's serious stuff, I get it." He swallowed. "I came to you, even though the last thing I should probably be doing is getting another person involved, because I know you can keep those documents safe. It's important," he said again. "All that matters is that I'm fine, okay? Dad?"

Henry was still looking over the bruise. He hadn't realized it was humanly possible to leave such a nasty mark on skin, yet here it was. "Yes, Shawn," he made himself say. "You're fine, for now."

Shawn resisted the urge to stomp his foot. His father was so annoying. He jerked his arm free. "Nothing you can say is going to change my mind. I made a promise to Gus."

Henry stared back hard, but finally let his kid win the staring contest. He turned away and then heard Shawn mutter, "Oh, crap."

"What?"

"Gus told me to call him a lawyer. He used his one phone call on me."

"Well, you should do that then," Henry patronized.

Shawn shot a eyeful of daggers at his father. "Yeah, I guess I should." Shawn turned to leave, stepping heavily all the way to the living room. Henry followed him.

"Shawn?"

"What?"

"This case with Lassiter— _you're _not in over your head, are you?"

Shawn smirked sardonically, swinging his gaze towards his father. "What, you care now?" Henry's face flushed red. "Well, like I said, I'm fine."

"You said that you're fine 'for now'," Henry interrupted, his voice raising.

"No, you said that. Look, dad, Lassiter's the one who's in trouble here. And now, Gus," Shawn grumbled, trying to get his father's sudden attention off his well being. "All you have to do is hold onto those papers. I'm not asking for any help— I made promises and I need to keep them."

Shawn didn't wait for his father's reply. He saw Henry through his helmet's visor, waving his arms with his mouth opened in a succession of yells or speech, but Shawn couldn't make anything out over the roar of his engine. The bike vibrated underneath him and he was flying again. He moved with purpose back to Gus's; mechanically, he searched for a card, and when he found it, he dialed right away. Shawn had no idea what he said to the person on the other end of the line, other than it involved him calling on behalf of Gus because his friend had specifically requested this person's council. After being remotely assured that the lawyer would actually get in contact with Gus, Shawn hung up the phone and left.

_* * * _

Shawn parked his bike in front of the Psych office, but when he went inside, the dull hollowness really hit him. The emptiness resembled an implosion of his insides. Today was the first time he'd even seen Gus in a few days— Gus had been busy with Central Coast and Shawn had been busy trying to help a detective who didn't want to be helped. _Well, that isn't entirely true, _Shawn amended. He sighed, walking to his desk at a slow pace, sitting down at the same pace. He stared across his desk; yesterday Juliet had sat there, doing research before work in hopes of clearing her partner's name. With all the excitement today, he hadn't even thought to ask her if she'd managed to peruse any of those databases for information about Lassiter's early case.

But then Lassie had told him that Roman Cavaliere was dead— evidently killed in prison. Shawn frowned, feeling disappointed that he'd researched so much to not have it lead anywhere. _God, back to square one._ He stared miserably at his computer, and then turned on the monitor. _Well, was he "killed" or was he "murdered"?_ his inner voice poked suddenly. Shawn thought more about this. "Killed" _could_ mean murdered, or it could amount to some accident that took place on prison grounds.

Shawn tried to think back through Lassiter's reaction to his trying to dissect the note. Lassiter had tried to cover Shawn's analysis with some grim joke— or maybe it was just the fear of a possible reality— about the "grave" in the note becoming Lassiter's. It wasn't until Shawn got to the end of the note . . . about the burning knife and the sad faces that Lassiter had really lost it. Shawn knew that he'd try to cover his own fear with anger at Lassiter— but he'd never seen a reaction like that from the detective before. The majority of the fainting he'd witnessed involved Lassiter's knees buckling before he collapsed, his body going entirely limp. But yesterday— his back and neck had arched rigidly, and his skin had been such a translucent shade of white that Shawn cringed recalling it.

_Donia Notte. _A small glint of anger flared, but it fizzed out fast. Lassie had written it down— obviously it was some memory he'd had when he was there alone (which Shawn hoped was completely true; he frowned thinking of the woman hiding behind Lassie's curtains). Shawn realized how unfair he'd been— he kept forgetting how much Lassiter had been through, and how much of a strain it was for him to retrieve snippets of memory.

He sighed. There was the matter of the results— he _had_ to tell Lassiter. Rohypnol. Shawn shook his head. He just wished that he'd been able to keep Gus out of trouble— if only he could have known. _You're not really psychic, you know_, he teased himself. But Shawn still blamed himself. He shook his head. Self-pity wasn't going to help Gus. He knew he had to do something.

Lassie's journal was still in his backpack, since yesterday Shawn had gotten too angry to remember that he still had it. He slid it out and began to thumb through it, a new wave of shame shifting over him. Even if no one else believed in Lassie right now, Shawn had elected himself to. He couldn't just turn his back on Lassie, even if he was acting like a jerk. _I said I would do this, I have to do this. For Gus. _

Because there were so few names in the journal, it was much easier to speculate that a large number of people were involved. Shawn tried to narrow it down; he flipped the pages and made a list of how many different suspicious people Lassiter had described.

Two kidnappers. (Description unknown. Both wore masks. Probably both men. Lassiter thinks one was a little shorter than he is; Lassiter is 6'1"?)

The woman. Last name Notte? Donia Notte? (Five feet tall, petite, attractive, dark hair, Caucasian, mid twenties?)

The fake locksmith. (Six feet tall, lean, muscular, Caucasian, mid-thirties? Glasses, real??)

Mr. Bernise. The same one of Bernise Locksmith Company? A fake company? (Description unknown)

The man who threatened Lassiter in the hospital. (Five foot eleven, fifties, Caucasian, brown hair with gray sideburns, brown mustache, curled scar under one eye, brown, leathery complexion, stocky?)

The man/person/stranger who grabbed me (Shawn) in the alley. (Description unknown. Didn't see his face. He's strong, probably big meathead type.)

Man arguing with woman (Donia?) in Lassiter's memory, when the woman cut his stomach. (Description unknown)

Shawn counted all the people and came up with eight. That was still a lot— too many. Shawn scanned Lassie's last entries, which the detective had experienced when he'd been weak with hunger, then flipped back to the argument between the man and the woman, then to Lassiter's account of the abduction when something caught his eye.

_"_Mi caro_," the petite woman was whispering, her dark hair swaying in a gentle breeze. Sea air wafted and mixed with the vanilla scent of her. The sound of birds, a muted caw caw caw, as they dipped close to the ocean's surface at twilight. _

_"It wasn't necessary," a man's voice said harshly. Then, "Get it fast." Figures over me, their mouths shaping words . . ._

_I heard a male voice while she was kissing me. "What are you doing?" He seemed angry with the girl/ woman. She said, "Ah, let me have some fun with him, won't you?" . . . She drew the knife across my stomach, I felt the cut opening and then it felt wet. It hurt, but I didn't say anything. . . ._

_The man was harsh with her. He said, "It was unnecessary." I think he said her first name, but I can't get it to come to me. He put the cloth back into my mouth. _

_Two figures in black, standing over me. Both wearing gloves, ski masks. They made me drink something out of a glass. I swallowed most of it. One of them hit me; I think that's how I got that bruise under my eye. I tried to get up. One of them squeezed my neck._

_"Get it fast," one of the figures said. Male voice._

_I fought back and got out of my bed. . . ._

"Dude," Shawn blurted to the empty office, his eyes widening. "This guy was one of Lassie's kidnappers." Shawn went back to his list, circling the last description and then drawing an arrow back up to the top of the list. He wrote, "Man arguing with Donia one of the kidnappers." He added a couple of question marks, but he was resolved to discuss it with Lassiter; maybe there was more he'd remembered that could be helpful. "Well, I guess that means it's _only_ seven stalkers/ kidnappers/ killers, not eight," Shawn muttered humorlessly. He scanned more pages for a little while, then closed the journal.

His thoughts swung back to Gus. Shawn sighed, and gazed around. Before, the silence hadn't bothered him, but now that he knew that if he called Gus, his best friend wouldn't pick up— the sound of stillness was too loud.

"How could they have put it all together so fast?" Shawn wondered aloud, trying to piece together the elaborate scheme against Gus. "He gets the results— then the originals vanish." That was apparently yesterday. "Now today— he's in jail." How did Vick even manage to get a warrant that quickly? "The charges— how can they possibly stick?" Shawn got up and started pacing. He thought and thought, but he couldn't make sense of it. He knew it was _his fault_— not Lassiter's— because Gus was _Shawn's_ best friend. It was a message which he surmised amounted to: _"Stay away from Lassiter. This is what happens when you disobey." Am I a threat to them? _Shawn wondered. It was a good thing he didn't obey orders.

Likely the only thing that made sense was to drop the case— but would that mean the charges against Gus would be as mysteriously dropped as they were brought on? Shawn thought about it, and found he couldn't believe it. Gus had seen the results; he'd made and hidden copies. Gus knew that Lassiter had been drugged— if Vick knew that, it would be much harder for her to disprove Lassiter's story. _Unless— no. Could it?_ Could Vick think that Lassiter would really ingest a dangerous and illegal drug for the purpose of a good night's sleep? Shawn shook his head slowly. He wanted to think that if Vick knew that one small fact, that taking Lassie seriously would be automatic.

"So, they must know that," Shawn muttered, pausing in the middle of the office. "Me stopping my investigation— Lassie would still be in danger, and Gus— still in jail." He sighed. "Gus is right. All of it's connected." He just wished Gus wasn't collateral damage. _It's just temporary_, he amended. _I'm going to figure out how to get you out of this mess, buddy,_ Shawn promised.

_* * *_

Lassiter was starting to hate his apartment. He knew that if he were stuck in a jail cell, all he would think about was getting back to his own place so he could sleep in his own bed, but his apartment was seeming too much like a cage. A cage to keep him in and that had too many keys out there to let in undesirables, at any time. Last night, he could have sworn he heard someone— something, perhaps— shuffling about in the front rooms as he lay tensed under the sheets of his bed— but honestly, he couldn't tell if that had been a real occurrence or if it had been another vivid dream. Whatever it was, Carlton had been too scared to move. He wished his spare guns hadn't all been removed from his apartment; he'd checked all of his hiding places, but it seemed they were all gone.

He wondered what he should do now— Lassiter sighed. It was bewildering why Spencer had become so upset yesterday. Carlton tried to go over it piece by piece, but the edges blurred each time. Spencer had said he had passed out for about five minutes; he'd had that awful dream— he shook his head, not wanting to remember it. No matter how much of a thorn in his side the kid was, Carlton _did not_ want to see anything like that ever happen to him.

_How did Spencer find out about Donia?_ Lassiter wondered, suspicious of how Spencer may have conjured her name from the ether. Perhaps he'd . . . spoken her name when he was unconscious? He couldn't recall this, but he sighed with a relief that he could continue his incredulity in Spencer's "psychic abilities".

The bottom of his foot was starting to itch, which likely meant it was healing. He pulled off his shoe and slipped the sock from his foot. The bandages were still wrapped thick, but he carefully peeled back the layers of gauze until he felt the air on his skin. Sitting half Indian style on the couch, Lassiter peered at the wound— the scab thick, brown, prickling under the surface and teasing him to scratch. There would likely be a small scar there but he didn't mind.

Carlton's thoughts drifted back to the day he'd awoken on that beach. _Seems like a lifetime ago_, he thought, though he rationalized that it had only been a week or so ago. The details were precise, like the first time he'd thrown up in the sand, the strangeness of being dressed in clothes he was certain he didn't own, even the pain he'd felt behind his eyes which left him too weak to stand. Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling for much longer than a regular breath. With any luck, he'd jog a dormant image that could be useful. But his mediation didn't bring up any hiding memories.

_Why am I even bothering? What's the point? They've got all their evidence— I'm going to get crucified in court._ Lassiter frowned, despair climbing his ribs as if they were a ladder, then pooling in his throat so if he tried to use his voice it would only be a croak. But he wouldn't— _couldn't,_ he told himself— try to get Spencer to investigate anymore. It was about time Spencer wised up— realized he was in over his head. _No more pictures, good._ Lassiter nodded to himself. _No more bruises, also good._ _And the best of these no mores for Spencer— no more abduction attempts._ Thinking about that made Lassiter very nervous— the kid all alone, despite his insistence that he was capable of taking care of himself. _I guess he is_. He thought about all the times throughout the years that Spencer had had a gun pointed at his head and had managed to get out of those situations without even a scratch. But, Lassiter realized, how many times had Spencer escaped unharmed because he had been rescued— by Lassiter, O'Hara, or Vick? Spencer always played that "I'm-so-cool-and-nothing-can-touch-me," card after the danger had passed, but Lassiter recalled fear cross Spencer's face on more than one occasion when some perp tried to use him as a human shield. Well, it didn't make any difference— as long as Spencer still had O'Hara and Vick and whomever took his place as Head Detective to rescue him from those future situations— regardless, he knew it was over for him. "They just won't believe me. Nothing I can do about it," he murmured, a line of sadness tightening his chest.

He pulled the sock back over his scabbed foot and stood, going into the kitchen for another dose of dulling pills. He still hadn't opened the other bottle; once again, he barely saw the point. He swallowed two of the usual ones before deciding on trying to eat something. Lately, he'd lost interest in food; the tasting, the chewing, the digesting— he just didn't want it. Lassiter might stand in front of the open fridge, peering at all the variety, or in front of cupboard doing the same thing, for a long time before closing them with a bored sigh.

He got out a box of cereal and a bowl, then wondered if the milk was still good. Lassiter hadn't touched it in days. Well, it didn't matter, did it? After he put everything together, he just stared at it. His eyes teared up suddenly to his great surprise. He dropped to one of the stools, but couldn't get the spoon to his mouth without his arm shaking, so he just pushed it away. _Alone. _Just the single word repeating as he leaned his head on his arms.

_* * *_

_"Here, you give it to him," Marte told Donia, handing over the pungent smelling cloth. "There's just enough on it to make him sleep little time; soon enough he awakes and wonders what the hell has happened, _si_?" _

_"We see him again, Marte?" Donia asked, accepting the cloth. She sounded very wistful, resigned. Lassiter was seated and now unbound. He watched with dull blue eyes the exchange. Staring out; the man whole, then a bloodied mess in the sand. The image made him want to scream, but despite the fact that he was no longer gagged, he couldn't cry out. _

_"Of course we will, _orchidea_. You know your father—"_

_"_Si_," Donia mumbled. She used both hands and pressed the cloth against Lassiter's mouth. He made a face and tried to pull back, but she said firmly, "Inhale." Lassiter took a breath; the chemicals burned his nostrils; he wanted to stop. His eyes watered and he gazed at her imploringly. "Inhale," she repeated, and he took another breath. This continued until the girl in front of him blurred; he was only mildly aware that his hands had been freed and that he was trying to use them to stop her. _

_* * *_

Lassiter jerked awake so fast that he lost his balance and fell from the stool to the hard tile floor. "Ouch," he grunted, jarring his left side as he inched forward. "God—dammit." A little voice urged him to stay down there, but he wasn't about to listen to it. Lassiter climbed to his feet, fumbling around for the pad where he'd been taking notes. Finding it, he wrote everything down; possibly, at the very least, his lawyer could get him a lesser sentence if there was some shred of proof that he could be innocent.

Was this memory the reason why— or how— he'd awakened wandering on the beach? He had been drugged again, and then— released? Did this mean that they _had_ let him go? A pounding started behind Lassiter's ears, rolling slowly up the back of his skull. "No," he moaned. "Just— just go."

_* * *_

_The man he so feared grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugged and yanked until Lassiter's face was centimeters from his. His breath stank of wine. He pressed his mouth against Lassiter's ear and whispered one word. _

_Lassiter shook his head, though he couldn't turn it too far. _

_"You did this," the man snarled. Lassiter's eyes darted from the man's hard brown eyes to the white scar. "You will pay dearly." He jerked Carlton's head to one side but then released it with a hard shove. _

_"Your _angelo custode_ watches you now." He spat on the floor next to Lassiter's chair, and turned on his heel. Lassiter heard footsteps storming away behind him. He raised his head slowly, stopping when his eyes fell upon her, her palm against the door frame. She took a few steps in. "Are you— ah— _farsela sotto dalla paura_ of me, _caro_? Do not be scared." When she was close, she bent and kissed him on the lips— a cloth between his teeth. Her hair brushing his skin, her palm caressing his cheek. Lassiter gazed up at her imploringly. "I cannot let you go, _caro_," she said. "Even when you go— I watch. In time, you come back."_

_Carlton watched her; he must have shook his head. Her face screwed up and she cried out with spoiled rage; her open palm bouncing off his cheek. He was more startled by the loudness of the slap then the actual pain. _

_"Oh, do not look ata me that way," she pouted, seeming flustered. She combed a small pale hand through her dark chocolate mane. "I haveh wanted you to be mine for some time." She bent down and kissed his cheek in the same place she had just slapped. Then she stood to her full height and smiled wickedly, as if her weepy feelings had been merely an act. "I will haveh you," she mumbled cryptically, letting her fingertips trail against his cheek before turning away._

_* * *_

The memory broke apart. Lassiter brought his head up slowly, realizing that he was on the floor again, this time next to his coffee table. His hands were shaking as badly as before, so he let himself lie there like that like the little voice had warned him to do earlier until his mind and skin connected again.

"_What_ did I do?" Lassiter muttered, wondering what the man may have been referencing. When he got his hands on the pad, he wrote until only one blank page of the pad remained. While he wrote, he distanced himself from the fear, and when he was finished, he pushed the memory away, both physically and emotionally— _People could die from fear like that, couldn't they?_

_* * *_

Juliet wiped a hand across her face, carefully scratching her nose. She was usually better at maintaining her composure, but she felt that if one more act occurred to turn upside down the world she knew so well, she wasn't certain she could handle it. A lawyer had arrived for Gus, and after speaking to his client, he had instructed Gus to exercise his right to remain silent. She and Samuelson had tried to question him, but the lawyer sitting next to Gus had deflected all of their questions with, "My client has no comment on that." After forty-five minutes of this, they had given up.

She paused in the hallway next to Samuelson to catch her breath— it almost seemed as if she'd been running a race at full speed but still hadn't managed to cross the finish line. "Another tough one, huh?" Samuelson muttered. "I'm going to grab a coffee. You want?" As she nodded, Buzz McNab sauntered up towards them. His usual warm brown eyes were filled with a tight unease. Samuelson paused.

Juliet looked up at him expectantly. "Detective O'Hara," Buzz began in a low tone, his eyes flicking once to Samuelson, "I noticed this before, uh—" Buzz stopped. He seemed to be having trouble with the correct phrasing of what he wanted to say. He tried again, but stopped. "Sorry." He shook his head.

"Was there— did you have a question for me, Buzz?" Juliet pressed politely.

Buzz hesitated. "Shawn," he began, closing his eyes.

"What about him?"

Buzz explained about Shawn's reaction when he had clutched his arm in the stairwell.

"What?"

"I was just trying to prevent him from running into Vick. I really don't think I grabbed him that hard."

"Huh." Juliet pursed her lips, thinking back to yesterday. And today, she recalled. Shawn had been wearing a jacket in 80 degree weather. _What was that boy trying to hide?_ She nodded to Buzz distractedly. "Thanks."

"No prob. I thought you might want to know," Buzz told her before nodding back. "It was weird, you know?" He nodded at her and then Samuelson, who shrugged, not really knowing Shawn very well.

"Detective O'Hara," Juliet heard a familiar older man calling her name. She turned from Samuelson and McNab to see Charlie shuffling towards her, the slight nerve damage to his left leg more apparent. She was more than surprised to see him not only wandering around up here but also heading directly for her.

"Hello, Charlie," she greeted, starting to add something formal, such as, "What can I do for you," when she noticed Charlie was holding a folder.

"I found that file you were looking for, Detective O'Hara," he said flatly, with no hint of any secretiveness.

Out of the corner of her eye, Juliet noticed both Buzz and Samuelson staring at her quizzically. Juliet felt her cheeks flush, so she quickly turned from her colleagues to hide it. "Thank you— but you didn't have to come all the way up here. I could have—"

"It's my pleasure, Detective O'Hara," Charlie said. He was close enough to her and since she had her back turned, she was completely obscuring his facial expressions from McNab and Samuelson. As her hand closed around the file, Charlie gave her wrist one warm squeeze and nodded once, a trace of smile at his lips. He stepped back and offered her a half wave before turning to go.

"Thank you!" she called after him. She tucked the file under her arm. Neither Buzz nor Samuelson said a word about it; Juliet felt the slightest pang, because she realized that if Lassiter had been here, he would have busted her chops about Charlie's playing messenger service to her. It caught her off guard when she felt the under current of tears sting her eyes, but she set her mouth in a tight line and kept her thoughts from her expression.

_* * *_

A short time later, Carlton realized he should get in touch with his lawyer. He wondered while he dialed if the man was on his side; it was hard to think back to the only time he'd met Oswley face to face. Carlton again felt that he should be more abashed about what his lawyer had walked in to— but all he thought each time he circled back to that day was the dream, and the way it seemed he'd completely disconnected from his body. _Brilliant_, he thought, listening to Oswley's phone ring. _I can't recall a goddamn thing he said to me that day. _

The phone rang and rang but no one picked it up. Lassiter was vaguely struck with the feeling he'd had the day— actually, it was the same day as his interrogation, after he'd been brought to his apartment— when he called the customer service number on the locksmith receipt. The constant ringing made him uneasy; had he been had again? Lassiter was about to hang up when ringing stopped, clicking onto an answering machine or voice mail or such. He spoke into the phone dully.

"Hello, this is Carlton Lassiter calling for Jeremy Oswley. I— I'm sorry I haven't been in touch with you sooner, Mr. Oswley. I wanted to discuss your defense strategies for my— uh— Can you please call me back when you get this message? Thanks." After he hung up, he congratulated himself snidely for being so "smooth".

"I just don't want to think anymore," Lassiter said aloud, gazing around his apartment. The two memories from earlier had taken so much out of him that there was almost a physical ache in the center of his chest when he thought of them. His eyes rested for a moment on the uneaten bowl of cereal still sitting on the island. He ignored it and flopped down on his couch, and turned on his TV, something he hadn't done in a long time, other than to catch the news, or watch an episode of _Cops_. Lassiter flipped channels, not really seeing anything on the screen but flashes of color. He figured when he was in jail there would be plenty of time for the idiot box; that nothing mattered now that his spirit was broken.

_* * *_

Shawn was surprised to hear voices coming from inside Lassiter's apartment. As he listened, he realized that the detective likely had the TV on. Shawn had never seen Lassie watch any TV; it made him a little nervous. Any glowing embers of anger he had left for the older man died out to cold ash; had Lassie given up? What was Shawn going to find behind that door? He started to back up but then he heard Gus's urgent whisper. _"You can't stop. You get me? We need you."_

Shawn sighed and then rapped sharply on the door.

_* * *_

Lassiter blinked his blue eyes, glazed over from staring ahead of him. There was a curious knocking on his door; who could it be? He clicked the TV off, and glanced at a wall clock; it was almost 5 o'clock. His stomach growled as he shifted to stand, but he ignored the lightheadedness that accompanied his raising to his feet. He no longer had any use for that; the mere thought of the word "food" made him queasy. Pain was better— genuine.

Lassiter unlocked the door without even considering his safety. A small prickling at the base of his skull might be a warning of something bad on the other side of that door. So what if his eyes should roll back? Wasn't his life over anyway?

When he pulled open the door, his mouth dropped open. Spencer stood there, shifting uneasily. Lassiter was startled to see how white the kid's face was. He was confused too, since Spencer had been the one to storm out, accusing him of withholding important things. "I should have called you— I didn't trust my voice though," Spencer muttered shakily. He'd even tried to text, but he couldn't think of the right way to sum up anything. He hovered in the doorway, repeatedly wiping his hands on his pants. Lassiter frowned as he noticed the kid's face was puffy.

"Spencer, what's going on?" he demanded. "Why did you come back? I thought you—"

"Gus," Shawn said. His voice was flat.

Lassiter raised his eyebrows with concern. "What happened?" he asked more peaceably.

Shawn swallowed; his mouth was bone dry. "Gus was arrested today."

Lassiter's face split in confusion. "What for?"

Shawn looked like he was going to smile, but it wasn't in his eyes. He grimaced. "The official charge is grand theft pharmaceuticals." He gave a dour look, and ran a hand through his hair. "There's a mountain of evidence against him, Lassie—"

Lassiter nodded. This story was all too familiar to him. "But he's innocent," he said, nodding again. As Shawn put his head into his hands, Lassiter reached out and grabbed Shawn's wrist, startling him. "This is not your fault, Spencer."

"It damn well is," Shawn cried, shaking out of Lassiter's grasp. He sighed with a frown. "Gus got the preliminary results back on your glass yesterday morning," he began. "I just found out today— after I talked to him in the holding cell."

'Jesus," Lassiter muttered, hating to picture Guster locked up. With the exceptions of Guster's exploits with Shawn, Guster was one of the more responsible civilians Lassiter knew. "If anything, this is my fault. My problem, which I got you involved in."

Shawn snorted. He pushed past Lassiter to go inside, but he was distracted rather than insensitive. Instead of sitting, he went to the sink and filled a glass with tap water, swilling around in his mouth before swallowing it. He did this a few more times and finally felt the inside of his mouth hydrate, at least enough to get his words out. Imagine that, Shawn Spencer, speechless. "You didn't get me involved— I just—" He frowned, staring at the tiles. "Look, yesterday, I was just pissed. I thought you weren't taking my help seriously. I know you didn't really want it—"

"You wouldn't relent, it's true," Lassiter said mildly, "but you should know I'm— grateful. I wasn't trying to— I had planned to tell you about Donia, Spencer."

Shawn sighed. "I kind of figured that. Gus made me promise I wouldn't back off the case now." He frowned, still looking at the floor. "He"s rightÑ they really almost had me, framing Gus, but he's right."

"Right about what?" Lassiter stared at him quizzically.

"Why go to all this trouble, for you, Lassie? Did you do something that would cause them to want to punish you?"

Lassiter flinched, but realized suddenly that it wasn't a dig. Spencer was talking about the kidnappers, murderers, the people who had orchestrated this whole thing. "I— I don't know what I did," Lassiter admitted. "If anything."

"They want something from you— it's unbelievably serious and they won't stop until they get it. Take whatever it is from you or of you." Shawn broke off. "They took you, blotted out your memory, pinned a murder on you, took away all your credibility and made you look like a lunatic, but that's still not enough. What if—" Shawn forced himself to say it— "what if they want you dead?"

Lassiter didn't know how to respond. Shawn noticed that there wasn't any color left on Lassiter's face, and that he was staring ahead vacantly, as if this possibility was either too awful to contemplate or maybe it was freeing in some way, as if it signaled the end to all the torment. Shawn realized another reason why Gus had insisted Shawn stick with it— Lassiter was completely lost without the structure of his police life. Gus seemed to worry that he might have Lassiter's probable attempted suicide on his hands, a thought which hadn't even occurred to Shawn.

He sighed, and went to the living room area. "You're probably going to want to sit down for this next part."

"Why?" Lassiter asked, suspicious.

"Because, as I mentioned, Gus got the results on the glass. Just trust me, okay?"

Humoring him, Lassiter sank into a chair. "All right. So, what did they find?"

Shawn took a deep breath and then said, "Traces of Rohypnol. Apparently, it was a dose and a half."

Lassiter tried to shape his mouth around that word, but it was too elusive. A blush shot across his face when the girl's face came into his head. She smiled and did a little curtsy. He pressed a hand to his mouth; feeling nauseated suddenly. Head spinning, he dashed to the bathroom and slammed the door. Nothing came out of his stomach, but he remained there for several minutes, bent over the sink. Finally, he turned on the faucet and cupped some cold water onto his face.

While Shawn waited, he saw the pad Lassiter had tried to show him yesterday. Sighing, he grabbed it and started reading. He tore through each memory as if he were reading a page turning mystery novel.

_"Pooh, why does he haveh blood all over him?" the young woman asked, looking Lassiter over. _

_"Your geocatoelow tried to save his life. With that shirt." _

_"How noble," a man sneered. He scared me— by the way he looked at me. "Donia, clean up Mr. Lassiter, and get that shirt back on him." _

_"Come along, _caro_," Donia said. She took the t-shirt from my hands, uncrumpled it and called for Marstey. Or Mars? Marty? Mart? A huge hulk of a man appeared in the doorway, his bulk taking up the small room._

_"What is it, Donia?" he sighed._

_"Put the shirt back on him. I cannot reach way up there." She handed him the bloody shirt, and then pressed my hands under a steady stream of water. The blood ran over my fingers and turned the porcelain of the basin deep red. _

_"Donia, where is the shirt he was wearing—" _

_"Non low so," she said. _

_Martey groaned and rolled his eyes. "Ho pawrah dee avertey cative-a notzey per voy," he said._

_"I keep it, si (yes?) dee nazcostoe," she told him. _

_The big guy roughly put the t-shirt over my head, then told her— Donia— "You cannot get yourself attached to him. He will not always be this compliant, you know."_

_"Oh, but I want to keep him."_

_"You can't, Donia." This from the man— I think— who said "How noble" before. He was outside of the bathroom, he didn't come in. He said: "Tenairay a mentay, e mortoe dee una mortay doelowrosa." _

Later, when I read through the above memory, and got to the part when the guy says to Donia,

_"Your geocatoelow tried to save his life with that shirt," _I tried to think it through clearly but I literally started seeing red; I think I passed out. Got this weird memory (??):

_Standing on a beach, barefoot. Daylight. Sun was out— cloudy? Waves crashed— the water was blue-gray, seagulls were calling. Ocean air wafting into nostrils, then fumbles of human voice wove into my hearing of the birds' caw caw caw. A roar, no, it was a bark. Or a snap. A crack? Loud, very, very loud. I jumped, heard a muffled cry, then gurgling. A hand grabbed my hand, forced it around the shape of an object, solid, black, hot— familiar. (Why?? How??) I dropped it, and rushed forward, trying to stop all this red-black blood— blood??? All over the sand. A person was gurgling. _

Fainted twice today, I think— got these.

#1

_I was just sitting . . . um, maybe in that same place where I was when Donia sliced up my stomach. ?? Not tied up at all. _

_"Here, you give it to him," Marte(y?) told Donia— he was a big guy, looked like a bodybuilder; he's the one who put the shirt back on me after Donia called him— handing over the pungent smelling cloth. "There's just enough on it to make him sleep little time; soon enough he awakes and wonders what the hell has happened, _si_ (yes?)?" _

_"We see him again, Marte(y?)?" Donia asked, accepting the cloth. She sounded very wistful, resigned. While I sat there, I remembered . . . maybe some of that earlier memory from yesterday, when I was on the beach?? This man's bloody body lying in the sand. _

_"Of course we will, orcheedeeah. You know your father—"_

_"_Si (yes?)_," Donia said. She used both hands and pressed the cloth against my mouth. I tried to pull away but she told me firmly, "Inhale," so I did. Chemicals burned my nostrils; I wanted to stop. "Inhale," she repeated, and I took another breath. She blurred after a while._

#2

_The man who scares me was pulling my hair. (Who? I don't know why— but I know I was incredibly scared). I think I was sitting in a chair. Tied up? Not sure. Don't think I spoke to him at all. I think I couldn't. He pulled my face close to his; his breath stank of wine. He whispered a word in my ear but I can't— I don't know what it was he said. It/s there in my head but I can't call it back. _

_"You did this," the man snarled. I saw his hard brown eyes and white scar. "You will pay dearly." He jerked my head like he wanted to wrench my neck, but then he let go and said, _

_"Your angjello custoaday watches you now." He left. There may have been a door or a room behind my chair that he went into. Not sure. _

_She was there— Donia, watching me, standing a doorway in front of me. She said, "Are you— ah— farsellah sottoe dallah pawraw of me, _caro_? Don't be scared." I looked up and she was right in front me, and then when she kissed me, I realized I was gagged. She touched my face with her palm. I think I asked her (how??) to let me go, so she said, "I cannot let you go, _caro_, Even when you go— I watch. In time, you come back."_

_I might have shook my head; she slapped my face, then said in this bratty tone, "Oh, do not look ata me that way." She played with her hair and pouted, and then said, "I haveh wanted you to be mine for some time." She smiled and then kissed me again, adding, "I will haveh you." _

He was humbled by the words— Lassie had _lived_ this. Shawn silently promised that he wouldn't run away from helping Lassie again— and not just because he felt obliged to Gus. Shawn realized while reading that his conscience would never let him live it down if something happened to Lassiter that he could prevent— suicide, murder, insanity, or even if the innocent man was sent to jail; there was too much of that going around lately, he scoffed. Apparently, he had much to discuss with Lassie— Shawn was already seeming many similarities in these passages to the ones he'd read earlier in the Psych office. Pieces falling into place, murky becoming clearer.

Shawn was sitting uncomfortably in one of the chairs when Lassiter opened the door. He leaned up against the wall outside of the bathroom. He couldn't look at Shawn. "Go on," he said, his voice gruff.

"Um, the results aren't very clear about—" His face turned red, and he looked away. "According to Gus, what they basically say is that, with that much dosage, you would have been knocked out in a matter of minutes. The point of that is to make a person go to sleep."

"It's a hypnotic," Lassiter said, nodding. _Why give me that?_ He ran a hand over his mouth. "I was just— I was already asleep," Lassiter mumbled. "Why wake me up to—" He pushed off the wall to pace.

"Because they wanted to make sure you wouldn't wake up and try to escape," Shawn supplied quietly. "But we still don't know what was in the syringe."

"No," Lassiter confirmed, frowning deep creases around his mouth. "Do you have the results with you?"

"Nope. Oh, and by the way, Lassie," Shawn began, his expression wry, "you can't unnerve me again with trying to call my father."

Lassiter stared blankly, waiting for more. He realized Spencer wanted him to ask why. Spencer folded his arms across his chest. "Why?"

"I gave him the results for safe keeping. It was Gus's idea."

"You what?" Lassiter's eyes shot up.

"I had to; he's the only with a safe and who doesn't know a goddamn thing— well, I did have to tell him a little bit, but mostly I just scared the hell out of him by showing him my arm."

"Oh," Lassiter said, imagining Henry's reaction. He was glad he wasn't in the room when that went down. "What did he say?"

"He said he'd keep the documents and keep his mouth shut." Shawn rolled his eyes and sighed. He could no longer talk things through with Juliet. "For now, anyway."

"Did he read them?"

"I don't think so. But he's an ex-cop, not a chemist," Shawn reminded him. "I looked at them a little but they were pretty complicated. Gus explained the most important stuff to me, though." He sighed. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but when you were in the hospital, the first time, Vick had your blood run through a toxic analysis."

Lassiter frowned angrily, the creases around his eyes visible.

"Apparently, it came back clean. So that means whatever they injected you with, including the Rohypnol, had worked its way through your system."

Lassiter snorted, and thought, _just because it looks that way, doesn't mean it's so._ "How dare she," he spat. "Sweet justice, she's been building a case against me all along."

"Maybe not," Shawn attempted. "Maybe she's just trying to get all the facts. If you said you had been drugged, then maybe she thought she was helping by trying to find out what it was."

Carlton laughed, a small, ironic sound. "But just the opposite occurred. She figured I was lying, and was obviously guilty."

"Juliet says that Vick doesn't know what to think," Shawn told him. "Sorry, I know you want her to side with you, but—"

"But it looks bad." Lassiter nodded, understanding Spencer's points.

"No, it's been _made_ to look bad," Shawn corrected. "You want another great example of that, look at Gus." He frowned hard, hating that his best friend was locked in cell for no good reason. He forgot he wasn't supposed to mention Juliet's name when it came to talking about the tape. "Juliet told me that they'd received anonymous security footage from a so-called break-in at Central Coast. A figure, clad head to toe in black, supposedly broke in and stole a bunch of drugs, and somehow it all leads back to Gus. The evidence is there, but it doesn't make any sense. She said all you see is this figure taking some stuff and then the cameras go out, some kind of technical glitch. But why they think this person is Gus— it's beyond me."

A flash tore through Lassiter's skull. _"We'll need him immediately for the security clearance," a man said. "These aren't the old times— we cannot just come and go as well please. And if we encounter guards— we have our 'undercover cop' who doesn't want his face seen due to an investigation."_

_"Hope they buy that."_

_"They will. The last thing they'd want is their company experiencing bad press." The man snorted._

_Someone had already dressed him, black jeans, a long sleeved black shirt, gloves, black shoes. A little voice in his head told him to run. He started to back away._

_"Stop!" another man's voice called out. Lassiter stopped, his muscles tense. The voice said "run" again but he couldn't move. He felt livid, but not at all in control. _

_"It's a pity we can't better predict the effects," the first man said smoothly, his words measured and well pronounced. He was older and not as tall as the others, with the exception of the girl. He circled Lassiter, eyeing the detective with an amused menace. _

_"What if he causes us trouble inside?" the second man asked. He didn't seem to trust Lassiter at all. He was standing just to Lassiter's left side, ready to grab his arm in case he tried to bolt. _

_"He won't, Cybil," the older man said. He took something from his pocket and tossed it to Cybil. _

_Cybil shook it out and stared at it. The older man nodded, and Cybil wound it to its length and then pulled cloth between Lassiter's teeth. He tied it behind Lassiter's head. Lassiter's mouth worked around the gag, trying to make it feel less uncomfortable. He raised his gloved fingers to take it off, but Cybil slapped his hands away. "Leave it alone," he snarled, right in Lassiter's face. Lassiter stared back, his eyes defiant. His hands were resisting the order, and he again brought them up to his mouth. _

_"Stop," the first man instructed firmly. He jabbed Cybil to make the man, all six feet irate musclar-ness of him, back up. He did so, begrudgingly, his hands balling to fists. The man bore his hard brown eyes into Lassiter's and wrapped a hand around Lassiter's right wrist. He grunted, and tried to pull away. _

_"No," the man said. He gave the wrist a tug, hard enough to make faint tears spring to Lassiter's eyes. Nothing spilled out, but his eyes stung. "That stays in your mouth, understand. You will not speak, not to anyone. You will not ask for help. No one knows where you are or what happened to you." _

_Lassiter mumbled something; the man released his wrist and slapped him. "You will not speak," he repeated fiercely, pointing an angry finger at Lassiter's face._

_Meanwhile, Cybil looked on with uncertainty. Lassiter eyed him but still felt the baleful gaze ot the older man on his face. "What if he does, what if he gets someone's attention?" He mumbled something that Lassiter couldn't make out. _

_"Nonsense. He'll be a good boy, or else," the older man replied, turning toward Cybil. "L'ho fatto per il bene di tutti noi." Turning back to Lassiter, he pulled a black ski mask over his face, one that nearly completely obscured his eyes, two anxious dots of cyan in a sea of blackness. _

"Oh, my god," Lassiter breathed. "I think that figure was me."


	16. Chapter 15: The Will To Survive

**Chapter Fifteen:** **Under Ether, The Mind Comes Alive, Conscious Of Nothing But The Will To Survive**

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Author's Note: This chapter contains some slightly disturbing images, involving some minor blood and gore.

Disclaimer: I do not own references to Jimmy Hoffa. Or Meglite. I also credit wordreference dot com for Italian phrases.

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Carlton's eyes searched the room, as if it would transform back into a memory. He slowly realized he'd been bent forward over the kitchen island, his hands pressed against the side of his head. But unlike earlier he was still standing. As he dropped his hands and straightened, he felt pressure on his shoulder. "What did you say?"

Shawn's voice was far away. Lassiter couldn't tell by its pitch if it was angry or calm.

"I think that figure was me," Lassiter repeated. He turned his head slowly; Spencer was close, his eyes a wild hazel sea.

"Tell me what you saw," Spencer said. "Walk me through it." Lassiter was stock still, his eyes closed. Shawn was impressed that he hadn't lost consciousness, but Lassiter's skin was an icy white.

"Names," Carlton murmured. "They said— no, he said, "'Sybil'."

"Who?"

"Another guy. Older. A trace of an accent." Lassiter balled his fists. Trying to remember things made his head ache. "Uh, weathered skin on his face and hands. Callous brown eyes. Spoke at a measured pace, but the other man listened to him. He must be the boss." This man's face, hovering over him in the darkness of his hospital room. "Holy shit."

"What?"

"He— I think he's the same person who threatened me that night in the hospital."

"Okay, okay," Shawn said, nodding. "What else? Take it slow." Lassiter hesitated, feeling a uncanny sense of deja vu. "Why do you think you were the figure in black?" Shawn pressed gently, and waited as patiently as possible for Lassie to speak, though he started to tap the floor with his foot nervously. What the hell was Lassiter saying? _He_ was the figure in black, the so-called "thief" caught on camera, stealing pharmaceutical supplies?

Lassiter eventually began to recall it, taking his time to sort out minor details aloud. Shawn listened, trying to make sense of Lassie's words.

"Wait," Shawn interrupted, "you're saying you were dressed all in black, and then this Sybil guy— he gagged you, and then the other guy put the mask over your face? Shit. You weren't a thief— you were a hostage."

"The older guy was speaking in foreign language. Not Spanish, or French—"

"You think it could be Italian, Lassie? Remember what I said 'Notte' means in Italian," Shawn reminded him.

Lassiter swallowed, then nodded. "It's possible. I can hear the cadence of the words but I don't know what they mean."

"You think you can write them down?"

"I don't know." Lassiter sighed. Of all the things, these foreign words were the hardest to tack down. "Well, with the other memories, I got some stuff down phonetically," he recalled.

"Yeah— I was wondering what all that gobbily-gook was," Shawn muttered.

Lassiter ran a hand through his hair. "You already— you read what I wrote?"

"I did. You were kind of in the bathroom."

A blush crept under Lassiter's eyes, so Shawn quickly added, "but it's good I did. There's stuff in your journal that I'm starting to piece together— and I think these recent memories will help for clarity. Well, I guess you'll have to tell me for sure."

Lassiter nodded, and Shawn went to his backpack which he'd set on a chair and rummaged around for the journal. He plopped on the couch, opening up to the last page where he'd made the list, then flipped the pad open to the first memory. Carlton looked at the uneaten bowl of cereal still on the island and sighed. He took it to sink but left it the way it was.

"Here," Shawn said, waving a blank piece of paper from his place on the couch in Lassiter's direction. "Write down the thingamajiggy here, and the words you think you heard too."

Carlton suppressed a sigh and took the paper. Spencer handed over a pen and then went back to studying the journal entries.

Two kidnappers. (Description unknown. Both wore masks. Probably both men. Lassiter thinks one was a little shorter than he is; Lassiter is 6'1"?)

The woman. Last name Notte? Donia Notte? (Five feet tall, petite, attractive, dark hair, Caucasian, mid twenties?)

The fake locksmith. (Six feet tall, lean, muscular, Caucasian, mid-thirties? Glasses, real??)

Mr. Bernise. The same one of Bernise Locksmith Company? A fake company? (Description unknown)

The man who threatened Lassiter in the hospital. (Five foot eleven, fifties, Caucasian, brown hair with gray sideburns, brown mustache, curled scar under one eye, brown, leathery complexion, stocky?)

The man/person/stranger who grabbed me (Shawn) in the alley. (Description unknown. Didn't see his face. He's strong, probably big meathead type.)

Man arguing with woman (Donia?) in Lassiter's memory, when the woman cut his stomach. (Description unknown) Man arguing with Donia one of the kidnappers. _Mid-thirties. Six feet tall,_ Shawn added.

Shawn added a two names to the list— _Sybil and Martey_. While he waited for Lassiter to record the latest account, he went back to the memory Lassiter had had when he heard one of the men call the young woman Donia.

Under Martey, Shawn wrote, _Huge hulk, 'skull crusher' hands. Tall, over six foot one._

Marte and Donia, it seemed, drugged Lassie— _chloroform??_ Shawn wrote.

Then he wrote, from the memory of Lassiter having his hair pulled, _ This man is older, stern, has weathered skin. A white scar. Brown hair. A mustache. He's very scary to Lassie._ Shawn scanned the descriptions— and then he flashed back to Lassie saying, _"Another guy. Older. A trace of an accent. Weathered skin on his face and hands. Callous brown eyes. Spoke at a measured pace, but the other man listened to him. He must be the boss. I think he's the one who threatened me in the hospital." _Shawn wrote, _Hospital guy = scary guy who told Lassie "you will pay dearly" = Second guy who might be "the boss". He called the other guy "Sybil"_—

Shawn reached out and snatched the paper from Lassie. "Spencer!" he protested, "I'm not—"

Shawn scanned the beginnings of the memory.

_Not sure where we were, but I was standing with two men. I had been dressed in head to toe black, including gloves. I had those black jeans on that I woke up in on the beach. I tried to move, to run, but one of them yelled, "Stop!" and I stopped. I tried to move again but I felt frozen. Couldn't move. Like when the girl told me not to yell as she cut me._

_"We'll need him immediately for the security clearance," a man said. "These aren't the old times— we cannot just come and go as well please. And if we encounter guards— we have our 'undercover cop' who doesn't want his face seen due to an investigation."_

_"Hope they buy that."_

_"They will. The last thing they'd want is their company experiencing bad press." The man sounded sarcastic. "It's a pity we can't better predict the effects." His words measured and well pronounced. He was older and not as tall as the others, with the exception of the girl (how do I know that??). This man was a shark circling me. _

_"What if he causes us trouble inside?" the younger man asked. _

_"He won't, Sybil (Cybil?)," the older man said. The next thing I know this guy— Sybil? was gagging me with a cloth. I tried to take it off; Sybil tried to threaten me, but I kept trying. Sybil was six feet tall and muscular._

_The older man (he had these hard brown eyes) ordered me to stop, and I stopped trying to take the gag off. (Why??) He grabbed my injured hand and pulled on it. He told me,"That stays in your mouth, understand. You will not speak, not to anyone. You will not ask for help. No one knows where you are or what happened to you." I tried to speak and he slapped me and said again, "You will not speak." _

_The other guy— Sybil?— said, "What if he does, what if he gets someone's attention?" _

Shawn scanned the account. "Uh, huh, uh, huh," he mumbled to himself, his eyes darting back to his list.

"What are you doing over there?" Lassiter asked, his arms crossed.

"Trying to narrow down how many people are involved. Trying to figure out who's who according to what you recall, and maybe even get names for these creeps. That's all." He rolled his eyes at Lassiter.

"So, what have you—"

"Shh, shh, I'm not finished," Shawn said. He sighed, and held up the paper to Lassiter without looking up.

Lassiter took it, but looked it over instead of trying to write down the rest. He let it fall to his lap when he noticed his shaky fingers were making the paper waver. Were these strange and stranger memories ever going to stop? As earlier, when he had tried to eat, moisture surged to his eyes. Embarrassed, he stood up quickly, pressing a hand against his mouth, and turning away before Spencer could see his face. Spencer didn't seem to notice. Carlton felt ill. This whole thing was his fault— he had done something bad— or had he? _Am I the thief that—  
_

"I'll tell them it was me," Lassiter blurted out suddenly.

Shawn stopped writing, and looked up. He hadn't realized Lassiter had stood up. He had his back to Shawn and his shoulders were hunched. "What?" Shawn asked slowly, getting to his feet.

"I'll tell Vick that I was— that I stole—" Lassiter hesitated, because the memory only stretched so far. "Whatever. I'll confess. Then they'll release Guster."

Shawn snuck up; paranoia had edged into Lassie's tone, and it worried Shawn instantly. "No, Lassie, they won't," Shawn said quietly, standing off to Lassiter's right side. Lassiter still hadn't turned around. Shawn rolled his eyes, then knocked his knuckles against Lassiter's shoulder. Lassiter didn't flinch or even acknowledge it. "You know that's not how stuff works, Lassie."

"Hasn't it all changed since I've been gone?" Lassiter asked bitterly. He pressed a hand against his mouth again. Shawn nodded tightly, understanding what he heard in Lassie's voice.

"Look, Lassie," Shawn said seriously, "Gus would revoke his friendship with me if I let you confess to something you didn't do. He's on the other side of the bars now— he understands. Especially something _you know, _not to mention that both me and Gus know, you didn't do. Plus, I'm pretty sure he'd punch you in the nose or something if you did that."

Lassiter's brows knitted together, and he turned his head slowly in Shawn's direction. "What?"

"I don't know," Shawn said, shrugging. Then he smiled.

Lassiter sighed, and let his muscles relax.

"You okay?" Shawn asked. "Are you over wanting to confess to crimes you didn't commit now? Like dumping Jimmy Hoffa's body in the ocean or stealing a thousand pineapples from needy psychics? Hmm?" Lassiter's eyes flickered, and then were back momentarily to their old glaring selves when they fell upon Spencer's annoying grin. "That would really be a horrible crime, Lassie." But he didn't elaborate on what he meant.

Shawn plopped back on the couch and continued with his notes. Lassiter remained where he was.

_Sybil (Cybil?) is a guy, mid-thirties, six feet tall, muscular_, Shawn wrote. His eyes quickly highlighted the similarities. _Huh. So is the man who argued with Donia . . ._ "Lassie, this Sybil guy is one of your abductors."

"What?" Lassiter spun around so quickly he almost went down. He covered the lightheadedness by sinking into the nearest chair, one directly across from the couch.

"Yeah," Shawn continued. He explained how he'd made a list by going through all the accounts, and that he'd come up with eight possible people involved.

"Eight?"

"I know, that's what I said. So I tried to narrow it down. By the descriptions you remember and similar things they've said in different situations, I figured out that this same guy scolded Donia, and then later told her you got blood on yourself trying to save 'his' life."

Red flashed before him; Spencer's voice brought him back. "Lassie!"

"Okay," Lassiter mumbled, looking up.

"This is also all on the theory that there aren't four or five six foot tall, lean muscular guys who are all in their thirties who are all involved and who say similar things at different times," Shawn quipped.

"Huh?"

"He's also the guy you just remembered as Sybil, who gagged you after telling the other guy you were going to cause trouble."

"He gagged me before." Lassiter recalled the man— Sybil— leaning over him after he'd told Donia, "It was unnecessary." _God_. "So— he's one of my kidnappers, Spencer? How do you know that?"

Shawn explained, handing the list over to Lassiter across the coffee table. As Lassiter glanced over it, Shawn said, "This Sybil guy's at least one more thing too, Lassie."

"The locksmith," Lassiter breathed, looking at Spencer's notes.

"You read my mind, Lassie!" Shawn pretended to be astounded. "How'd you do that?"

"He was here— when Samuelson brought me home." Again, Lassiter was struck with the brazenness of these people— just how close they dared to get to him after all that they'd put him through. "God. I wish . . . I wish I had all the pieces. So I could tell it linear."

"Don't freak out, Lassie. You're getting there."

_And where exactly was that? _Lassiter shrugged it off, and started to hand the journal back. "What else have you deduced, Spencer?"

Shawn motioned for him to hold onto the journal. "Well, this older guy with the scar seems to pop up a lot. We still don't know his name, but it seems he's the mystery man from the hospital, the one who revealed Donia's name, the one who said that you did something and have to pay for it, and then the one who had that conversation with Sybil while you were standing, um, somewhere. Oh, and he might also be the boss."

Lassiter nodded while he listened. He realized how good an idea writing this down was— and having that extra pair of eyes try to sort it out objectively. Going over it was making him feel more grounded— he could feel some of his depression and hopelessness abate.

"I'm kind of thinking that Martey guy that Donia was talking to a few times—" Shawn swallowed, "I'm thinking that he's the one who grabbed me." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's 'cause you said that he was a big bulky guy— like a meathead, with huge hands?"

Lassiter nodded slowly. He noticed the change in color on the kid's face; he was more uncomfortable recalling the attack than he'd previously let on. Carlton cleared his throat. "All right. Was there anything else you could narrow down? How many people are involved, according to your conclusions?"

"Well, I think six. Sybil's one of your abductors and he's the locksmith, Donia— Donia Notte— is the woman, Martey is the stranger in the alley. Then there's the guy with the scar, who might be the 'boss'."

"That's four."

"Right, but then there's this Mr. Bernise we don't know anything about, other than that Scar Guy tells you how upset he's going to be, and then there's his name of that fake locksmith receipt. And then there's the other kidnapper, Lassie. We don't know who that was. Maybe it was one of them— oh, except probably not Donia."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Definitely not."

"Okay, so let's go back to this most recent thing you got— you really think you may have been this figure in black who stole something from Central Coast?"

Lassiter thought hard, trying to bring more of the memory to the light. "Ugh. I don't know. I can't see anything else. But what can another explanation be? That there was another figure in black on camera stealing something?"

"Do you remember— were the two guys dressed in black, Lassie?"

He tried hard to see through his eyes in that memory. He squinted as if it would help. "No," Lassiter said slowly, "I think they were— just plain clothes."

_Hmm. _"But they wouldn't have sent you in there alone, right?" Shawn wondered aloud. "They'd want to make sure they got the stuff they wanted. And they couldn't risk losing you, even if— I mean, you said that when they'd give you some kind of command, you'd listen?" Shawn raised his eyebrows while he watched recognition pass over Lassiter's face.

_Some kind of command,_ Lassiter repeated silently. _And I'd listen. Why? _He thought back to Donia cutting him, to when she washed the blood from his arms. There were times when he wanted to use his voice, but he had been given a firm "No"— so he hadn't. "Yes," he finally said, thoughts still flashing in his head. He tried to pay attention to what Spencer was saying.

Shawn had picked up the loose sheaf of paper where Lassiter had written the latest thing. _"We will need him immediately for the security clearance."_ Could this be the reason Lassiter had been kidnapped in the first place— to break into Central Coast for some kind of theft? Well, maybe that was the cover story; Shawn was certain there was more to it than that. "So Scar Guy told you not to speak, and you didn't?" Shawn looked up.

"No. But I guess I tried a short time later or he wouldn't have hit me." Lassiter's eyes were shining. "What if I tried to— later?" His voice was very low; Shawn had to lean forward to understand him. "What if I asked for help somehow—"

"Stop right there, Lassie," Shawn interrupted.

"Why?"

"You're going to say that you think you asked Max Sweets for help— and because of it, somehow led to his death."

Lassiter clamped his mouth shut, resisting the urge to ask exactly how Spencer knew that.

"Look, from what I'm getting here," Shawn began, "whatever happened wasn't your fault— somehow they were controlling you, that when they said something to you, you had no choice but to obey. Lassie, if they told you to hold something or carry it—"

"What if they told me to kill him?" Lassiter burst out suddenly. "What if they told me to shoot him, and I did?"

Shawn was silent for a moment. "I don't think you could have. It goes against all your morals." His eyes scanned the dream written in the small pad.

Lassiter frowned. "What if I did try to alert Sweets, and because I got his attention, they had to kill him? Or they made me do it?"

"Lassie, you didn't kill him," Shawn said quietly.

Lassiter jumped to his feet, ignoring the room spinning around his head. He closed his eyes to shut it out. _Vermilion, again . . . in a rowboat on the sea . . . red splashing up the sides of the boat. . . ._ He opened his eyes when Spencer said, "Are you listening to me?"

"I wish I could remember it—"

"Lassie, you did," Shawn said.

Lassiter froze. _Well, this is what you wanted, isn't it?_ a little voice sneered. _To know the truth? _He sank back to the chair, his face paling.

Shawn had the journal and pad of paper open to specific sections. He paraphrased Lassiter's words. "Lassie, you wrote here that after you heard Sybil tell Donia the reason you were covered in blood was that you 'tried to save his life with that shirt', you got some weird dream." Shawn, noticing Lassiter seemed dazed, smacked his palm on the coffee table, making Lassiter jump.

"I'm paying attention," Lassiter muttered, motioning with his eyes for Shawn to continue.

"So then you write that you get this dream where you're standing on a beach in broad daylight, it seems. You hear someone talking and then there's a loud noise. Someone yells, there's this odd gurgling sound, and then some hand grabs your hand and presses a familiar object into it." Shawn looked at the passage in the pad, reading the words Lassiter had written. "You say that it's 'solid, black, hot, and familiar'." Shawn's eyes scanned Lassiter's for any recognition. The detective gazed back blankly. "Lassie, I think it was your gun. In fact, I'd be surprised if it was anything else."

Lassiter dropped his eyes, trying to figure out what Spencer had just said. Was there still a chance he could be innocent? Of murder, at least?

"Then it seems like you dropped the gun. God, I knew you weren't a killer, Lassie."

"You're saying—"

"Whoever shot Max Sweets pressed the gun into your hand directly afterwards," Shawn said slowly. "So you'd get your prints on it, maybe some residue." He held Lassiter's eyes. "You witnessed his murder. You— you tried to save his life, Lassie." He set his mouth. "Jules said Sweets' was shot in the throat; you must have taken off the shirt and tried to apply pressure to the wound out of instinct or habit. Does any of that sound probable?"

Lassiter was listening with wide eyes. It took him a while but he nodded. His mind reeled backwards, and he recalled the dream he'd had in the hospital where his arm had split open, blood and bone jutting out. His insistence to stabilize the wound, to stop the bleeding. Then, at the station, the congealed red substance in his hand, containing shards of bone. _It hadn't been his blood, his bone or muscle._

Another memory filtered in, an extension of that beach dream. He closed his eyes and let it come.

_He remembered standing somewhere, outside. He'd jumped at the sound of gunshot, though it only barked because it was muzzled by a silencer. Outside, on a beach? Not wearing shoes. The man had been pleading, pressing his hands together as if in prayer. Sobbing. "Please. I have a family. Don't kill me." Then, the separation of skin from skin, a gaping wound, gushing red, bone exposed, muscles dangling out of the man's neck, an instant death sentence. He knew he had to do something. _

"They— someone, pulled me away. Dragged me away," Lassiter remembered aloud, feeling himself struggling against a phantom figure. "I— I couldn't stop it." He couldn't see the man's face after death, or recall how the real killer had gotten him away from there. His eyes glistened. "Oh, my god. He killed him." He rehashed the memory for Spencer.

Shawn knew he was pushing his luck, because Lassiter was already upset, but he asked, "Do you know who?"

The name clear suddenly where the face was not. The word was caught halfway between his speech and silence. "Syb—"

"Sybil?" Shawn offered while Lassiter froze. The detective nodded, very slowly. "Sybil killed Max Sweets?" Again, Lassiter nodded. Shawn pulled the journal away and wrote this latest part down, double underlining the name _Sybil?/Cybil? _and_ real killer/ murderer_, as well as _Lassiter = sole? witness to Max Sweets' murder_. Shawn scanned the rest of his notes. So Sybil was a kidnapper and a killer. And a locksmith, apparently. _Guy gets around, doesn't he?_ Shawn thought with a shiver.

"So, I'm— innocent," Lassiter stated slowly, feeling a strange wave of relief pass through his body like an electric charge.

"Of course you are," Shawn said, grinning. "I knew it all along."

"I didn't."

"That's why you're damn lucky you had Santa Barbara's Head Psychic on your side, Lassie."

Lassiter had to admit that Spencer's smile was contagious. He allowed himself a small, closed mouth smile. It did feel good to have proof. "Okay, so I didn't kill Max Sweets." The statement felt good to say. "But, is there a chance I could still be a thief? Even if I was forced to do it?"

Shawn's brow furrowed. There wasn't a lot to go on. He looked over the loose sheaf again. "Well, do you know what this means about 'security clearance'? Do you have some extra special security clearance at Central Coast? Maybe as Head Detective?"

"No," Lassiter said with a frown. Then his thoughts hitched. "Wait, that's not true."

Shawn waited, but Lassiter didn't say anything else right away. He seemed deep in thought.

"There was a case a few months ago— some petty thefts were occurring at North Coast Pharmaceuticals," Lassiter recalled slowly. "It was just a routine security check up, pretty much a rookie job. McNab and March were supposed to handle it, but some higher up in the company requested me; they took the thefts very seriously."

"So, what happened?"

"Nothing. I mean, it was just routine— I checked everything— _oh_." Lassiter bit his lip. "They made me an official security badge, with my picture on it, my name, and rank as Head Detective for SBPD. It was so I could have instant access to secure and private areas to make sure everything was in order." He looked confused. "But I gave it back after checking for any security breaches."

"Huh," Shawn muttered. "You'd think they'd shred something like that."

Lassiter nodded.

"Lassie, I think Max Sweets was a North Coast employee," Shawn said, thinking back to what Gus had told him days before.

"What?" Lassiter's eyes widened a little.

"Maybe Max Sweets got his hands on your badge and—" Shawn's voice trailed off. This train of thought opened a whole new world of weird. _And what, Shawn?_ he asked himself. "But that could mean that Sweets was somehow mixed up with these people— Sybil, Scar Guy, all of them."

"But— if he was a part of this"— _whatever this was_— "why would he be killed?"

"A double cross?" Shawn theorized. He looked Lassiter over. Maybe it had something to do with Lassiter after all— though Shawn suspected it was not as Lassie figured, that he'd tried to run away or alert someone to his trouble.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Spencer?" Lassiter asked, his eyes narrowed.

"Uh—" Shawn fumbled. He explained what he'd just considered, adding, "What if Sweets didn't know you were involved— that they'd kidnapped you and were forcing you to steal something? But after he found out, maybe they saw him as a liability."

Lassiter sighed. It was a good theory, but he had no idea if it were true. "It does make sense," he admitted. He saw Spencer writing in the journal. "What are you doing?"

"Just getting all this stuff down," Shawn said, not looking up. "It's best if we have as many facts as possible. Even if this stuff with Sweets turns out to be way off, at least it was a starting point. Though I don't think the spirits would let me go way off on this one." Shawn stifled a smile when he heard Lassiter grumble.

"I wish that I could remember more about this so-called theft," Carlton mumbled, though he found it funny that he wanted to remember— because of the way the memories left him— shaking on the floor. He sneered.

Shawn, finished writing, put the pen down. "Maybe it's time you tried Shawn Spencer's foolproof hypnosis session."

Lassiter looked up slowly, trying to conceal his annoyance. Spencer was grinning like an idiot. "And remember, my dad already knows about my arm." He crossed his arms and waited.

_Dammit. _He knew he didn't have any other option. "Fine," he sighed. "Do your worst."

Shawn bounced off the couch. "You sit here, it'll be more comfortable." Lassiter sighed again, but changed places with Shawn. "Close your eyes, try to relax."

Lassiter's face split, like he wanted to laugh aloud. He couldn't believe he was really going to let Spencer try to hypnotize him.

"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" Lassiter asked, an ironic smile on his face. He opened one eye.

"Shut up," Shawn shot back. "Close your eyes. Okay, here goes." He tried to get Lassiter to tell him more about the theft, but after a few minutes, the detective wasn't getting any images. "Nothing?"

"No. The same stuff. Can I open my eyes now?"

"No. Okay, let's try something else." He said the name before really thinking it through. "Try to focus on . . . Donia."

The smile left Lassiter's face. She came to him instantly, sauntering up to him at station, putting her face close to his, blowing him that kiss. Then he could picture her, standing at his apartment window, watching him from inside. He jumped back again; he hit the back of the couch and his eyes flew open. He darted his eyes back and forth about the room, as if she were here, watching him. _"Mi caro_," she whispered. He swatted the air, trying to dispel her. _What things had she done?_ All he could recall were kisses . . . maybe that's all she'd wanted.

Shawn stood frozen, watching Lassiter freak out. He was pretty sure this wasn't supposed to happen; the hypnotist he'd spoken to hadn't mentioned anything like this occurring. "Lassie, are you okay?" he called out.

Lassiter stopped, realizing Spencer was still in the room. His eyes took on a hooded, angry scowl that settled around his mouth. "This is a stupid idea," he muttered with some wrath.

"Not if you can relax," Shawn insisted.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "You're a 'psychic', not a 'hypnotist'," Lassiter snarled, getting up. His long fingers curled into air quotes as he spoke. "I don't know why I listened to you," he mumbled under his breath. He heard Spencer mutter a curse that was none too low, but ignored him and went to the kitchen sink. He let the water run a moment, and got a glass out of his cabinet. The faucet made a funny sound, as if it were about to shut off, or like it was clogged. He set the glass on the counter and peered at the water flow. His eyes widened in disbelief. _No, no, I can't really be seeing that,_ he told himself, peering closer at the liquid flowing out of the faucet. It couldn't be water; it was red, oozing, congealing on the stainless steel basin of his mostly empty sink.

There was a scream, a cacophonous mix of industrial machinery starting up, a jackhammer boring into a concrete sidewalk, the roar of heavily populated streets. The scream seemed to be coming from both inside his head and from outside; it fit around his mouth perfectly and crushed.

He closed his eyes, trying to eke away the pain. A thick chemical smell, sickly sweet and smoky, hung around in the air like garland, and through the hazy drizzle, sunlight streamed. Iridescent colors flashed bright like sequins. He put a hand to his nose to keep from inhaling and batted away some sticky orange beaded curtains. Then, the look of surprise and a wave of voices from strangers, sitting or standing around tables, some with cigarettes in their hands, others, snorting some kind of powder from a tube of newspaper. A few hovered around a bowl, breathing in vapors, their eyes all glazed over.

"Pigs! Pigs!" someone yelled. "It's a raid!"

These images felt overlaid onto some other surface, as if reenacting a movie scene rather than one's own memory. He was suddenly alone, the air musty but clearer, in the brown darkness of a basement room. He reached his long fingers into the pitch, watched them disappear from view as if this space here was a gateway to some other realm.

"Hello?" It was his own voice, but to his ears it came out a naive, as if this weren't a question a real cop would ask, not in a setting such as this. "Is anyone—"

The figure of a man appeared in front of him and was outlined by unknown light source. The man's back was to him. Sandalwood drifting in the air, its heady scent, then, the air choking him, the burning stench of myrrh. His eyes watered as the heavy, bitter smoke churned up his nostrils. He could feel it creeping down his throat. He stifled a cough.

_"Come distinguiamo l'io dal non io?"_ the man said in an even tone that was heavily accented, though Lassiter heard the words in English, rather than Italian. "How do we distinguish between I and not I?"

Lassiter pulled his hand from the blackness and turned his palm over. A red, gelatinized substance rested there. He tried to poke it with a knuckle. The man turned to face him. "Between I and not I?" he said with the same cadence, though all sound around them rang shrill. Lassiter let the mass slide to the floor so he could press his hands over his ears. The man took a step towards him, so Lassiter could really see his face.

His jaw slackened, weak sounds that would never form into words bounced around in his throat. He felt all of his strength leave him. The man's throat was a wide gash, like a clown smile, and deep cuts had separated the skin from both eyes, his nose, and corners of his mouth all cleaved by purple-red blood, so thick it resembled gluey paint. His face was a mask of blood, pus, death. Lassiter backed off, pressing a hand to his mouth to keep the vomit in.

"So young," the man muttered, though his lips didn't move. "So innocent, _si_?"

A laugh then, sharp like the report of a gun. Lassiter jerked his head to to the right; another laugh peeled. "So clean?" This voice was another's, female, with a teasing edge.

Lassiter blinked hard and shook his head. He opened his eyes and realized he was in his apartment, the night of his abduction. It was something he hadn't noticed before— the masked man who'd knocked the phone from his grasp, who'd held him still, who'd silenced him— his face was partially exposed. As the second man approached with the syringe, Lassiter scanned the man's face wildly, trying to remember details. Complexion— leathery, brownish; facial hair— a brown trimmed mustache; distinguishing features— under his right eye, a curled scar that was lighter in color than the skin.

The syringe went into his arm. This time Lassiter felt the needle pumped, the unknown chemical released into his veins. A hollowness poked from inside his bones.

"We don't know what happens," the masked man who'd emptied the syringe's contents into his blood stream told the other. Then, "Ah, he saw your face, Notta."

Lassiter watched the exchange, still tightly held. His vision was starting to weaken; his eyes watered furiously.

"Makes no difference," the man replied, as if bored with this game. He dropped his hand from Lassiter's mouth and yanked the mask back over his face. He let go of Lassiter's wrist with a little push. Lassiter's tongue felt swollen, he gurgled, and then lost control of his muscles. He crumpled to the floor, lying on his side like a heap of clothes. He tried to speak, tried to think. His head buzzed, a million silver dots exploding in front of his eyes, like fireworks.

* * *

He opened his eyes, staring confusedly up at a white ceiling where bright yellow lights hung from. He tried to speak, but his tongue still felt thick. He moved it around in his mouth, trying to kick up some saliva, and then suddenly Spencer's face was above him, white and panic-stricken.

"Lassie, oh, my god. You're awake."

Lassiter's forehead creased. What was wrong with Spencer? His voice was much too high pitched.

"I thought— oh, god, I didn't know what to think," Spencer continued, talking fast. "I didn't know what to do. I thought I should call someone, but I didn't know who—"

Lassiter brought a hand to his forehead, and realized that he was on his back— he looked to his left— on the floor next to his kitchen sink. What? How had he ended up here?

"Scared you'd hit your head or something," Spencer went on. The kid was very flustered. He was moving at a pace much too fast for Lassiter to grasp. "I was going to call an ambulance, but I thought maybe I could get you to wake up."

_What? Ambulance? Why would he need an ambulance? _

"Lassie, please, say something," Spencer pressed. "Are you all right?"

"I— I guess." Carlton was surprised that his voice was a little quaky. "Why am I on the floor?"

Shawn ran a hand over his face. "I don't know what happened," he confessed. "I had my back turned when you went to the sink, but then you screamed. By the time I got to you, you were there"— Shawn pointed to the spot where the detective was prone— "and out cold." He swallowed. "You've been unconscious for an hour."

Lassiter jerked his eyes to Spencer's and then tried to sit up. "Don't try to move yet," Shawn cautioned. He was worried Lassie would relapse; then he really would have to call for help. Lassiter paused, propped up on his elbows. Shawn took a breath and then launched into a long of story of trying to get him to wake up and failing miserably. Shaking him, yelling into his ear, panicking, and then trying everything again. Shawn had noticed the profuse sweat gathered on Lassiter's skin. "You were breathing, so I knew you didn't need CPR, but it was scary as hell. You were in this dead sleep. I checked your head for bumps, but I didn't find any, so I hoped you hadn't hit your head."

"I don't know if I did," he said, pressing his torso forward, but pausing again when he felt dizzy. He swallowed hard. Everything he had seen was vivid, resting right there beyond his closed eyes. All of it made him sick; he lowered himself back to the floor. The tiles felt cool and reassuring against the back of his head, his palms. "That was my scream?" he asked quietly, remembering it. It seemed like it belonged to a cartoon character, not a real person.

"You remember it?" Shawn asked, peering warily over him. "I thought— it sounded like someone was killing you. I'm surprised that none of your neighbors—if you even have any— called the police."

"It was that bad, huh?" Lassiter murmured. He didn't want to think about it, so he asked Shawn if he'd called anyone when he failed to wake up.

Shawn hesitated. The person he would have called right away was in jail. He knew he couldn't call Juliet or Vick; he didn't have any idea what his father would do; probably tell him to deal with it on his own and slam the phone down. "Um, well," he began. "I did call someone, but, well, I had to leave a voice mail. And the person hasn't called me back."

"Who did you call, Spencer?" Lassiter asked tiredly. "O'Hara?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. I've actually never met this person, but I think she— I think she might—" He broke off. This was the problem he'd had when he called her before; he didn't know her and he wasn't certain if she was really on Lassiter's side or if she was a spy for Vick.

"She? What do you mean, you've never met her be— oh, god, you didn't." Lassiter brought a hand to his face, covering his eyes.

"Look, I was panicking, okay? I was running through all the people I couldn't call, including paramedics, when I found her card." _Dr. Ann Rhodes, Ph.D, Law Enforcement Criminal Psychologist, (805) 555-2565_.

_"__You have reached the voice mailbox of Dr. Ann Rhodes, Law Enforcement Criminal Psychologist. I'm not available to take your call right now, but please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I'm available." There was a pause, and then a beep._

_Shawn sucked in a deep breath and rambled, "Hi, um, Dr. Rhodes, this is Shawn Spencer. I"m the Head Psychic consultant for the Santa Barbara Police Department. Look, um, the reason I'm calling you is because, um, I think Detective Lassie-Lassiter is um, one of your patients, and after I had a vision, uh, where he, in the vision, uh, fainted, I stopped by his apartment." Shawn rolled his eyes at himself and continued. "It was, uh, intense. I was— I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call. When I got here, he was alert, and then he just passed out and I can't get him to wake up. It's been a half an hour. He's breathing so we don't need 911, but, can you just call me if you get this message? Thanks." Shawn left his cell phone number and hung up. _

Shawn summed up the message briefly, making himself sound much cooler and collected than he was at that moment.

Lassiter didn't speak. He knew Spencer had already read through his account of the session with Dr. Rhodes in the journal. Knowing about everything he'd just seen would only add fuel to Vick's fire should she get a hold of it. And if Dr. Rhodes came by, wouldn't she be obligated to tell Vick what was going on?

"You don't understand," Shawn said. "You looked so bad. I didn't know what to do."

Lassiter swallowed a mouthful of fierce, metallic words. "It's okay," he said. "It probably didn't do any harm." He let it go, for now. He had more questions to ask before he tried to get up again. "Did you— uh, did you see the water in my sink?" Lassiter asked, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.

Shawn's brow furrowed. "No. I shut it off without looking at it because I was a little busy making sure you weren't dead."

Lassiter frowned at Spencer's melodramatics, but wondered, staring up at Shawn's pale skin, if the kid had really been that worried. "I'm not dead," Lassiter reassured him. "Can you take a look at that water, please?" He propped himself up on his elbows again, and waited for Shawn to walk around to the other side. When Shawn turned on the water, it made that same sputtering sound as earlier, then, as it fell, the water dripped with a thicker consistency than regular liquid.

"Holy shit!" Shawn's eyes bulged, and he jumped back.

Lassiter breathed a strange sigh of relief. He hadn't imagined it.

"It's red?" Lassiter asked.

"Yeah!" Shawn practically yelled. "How did you know?"

Lassiter pulled his feet in towards his chest and sat up. He pressed his back against the cabinets because he wasn't ready to test his stability yet. And he had no desire to get a glimpse of that water just yet. "That's what I saw, right before I yelled." Lassiter explained how the water he'd seen was blood red, oozing and then way it had puddled in the sink.

"Well, there's nothing congealed in there," Shawn told him, peering into the basin.

"Huh. Maybe it was just my mind playing its tricks then," Lassiter said, more to himself than to Shawn. He tilted his head towards Shawn, who was shutting off the faucet with some disgust. "I didn't know I'd passed out, Spencer."

"What do you mean?"

"It was like in a dream, when the scene transitions, and you move through it. There wasn't any going to sleep for me. I just moved."

Shawn squatted down, next to Lassiter, and opened the door under the sink. It was too dark to make anything out. "Do you have a flashlight around here, Lassie?"

Carlton pointed in the direction of some drawers. "There should be a couple Meglites in one of those. What are you doing?"

"Someone must have put something into your water tank. I want to see if I can find anything," Shawn told him, opening drawers.

Lassiter swallowed hard. When could this have happened? He pushed to his feet with unease, digging his palms into the ledge of his kitchen counters. He focused on the sound of Spencer moving his hand around in the drawers, pushing stuff together with a real time clatter. Spencer sighed, closed the drawer and opened another. _How long had that stuff been in there? What if what was in there was more than corn syrup?_ That was all he'd been drinking since he came back from the hospital— water out of the tap.

Shawn found a Meglite, and tested in on the way back to the sink. The light flashed on and he squatted down and shone the bright circle into the darkness. Shawn reached in and ran a hand along the pipes. When he hit something plastic, he gasped, and crawled towards it, shining the light right on it. It looked like a container that belonged under the hood of car, one that would hold windshield washer fluid or antifreeze. Instead of those, something red and soupy was in it, still a quarter of the way full. There was a small gauge on it— maybe a timer. He shook his head and then bumped it on the top of the sink, but ignored the pain, trying to see where the container was connected.

While Spencer looked, Lassiter wandered to the bathroom, both curious and a little ill to wonder if this red water extended to his bathroom water source too. Had he really been standing under water in the shower that at any time could have become a pulsing stream of red goo?

Before he could try the faucet, he caught a glimpse at his face in the bathroom mirror. _I look like a ghost. _The images he saw, especially from the middle of the dream or whatever it had been, were there again, hovering in front his eyes. He whimpered before he could close his mouth, and his line of vision slid. _Isn't it impossible? _Carlton thought_. I never even saw the body. I only heard . . ._

After a short time passed, Carlton winced when a hand slapped his cheek, not too hard. "Stop," he slurred. He took in his surroundings; bathroom stuff, bathroom floor. He was propped up in a sitting position, leaning against— "Spencer?"

Shawn's frown was evident in his voice. "You've got to stop scaring the hell out of me, dude," he told the detective angrily. Shawn was kneeling next the toilet, propping up Lassiter's shoulders with his arms. "Jesus Christ. You're goddamn lucky I'm so good at sprinting. You almost bashed your head on the sink."

"I— did I?"

"You freaking passed out again." Shawn tried to control his anger, because he knew Lassiter wasn't fainting on purpose. He took a deep breath. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Lassiter swallowed, staring at the wall in front of him. He worked to gather his thoughts coherently, so that they wouldn't overwhelm him again.

_I should go to Vick with this,_ Shawn thought. _She'd be so pissed to know what she'd let slide. But for god's sake, would she even listen to me?_ _Lassie needs help, like real, sit-down-and-talk-this- out-with-a-professional help._ _Maybe Jules will be able to get through to her. _When Lassiter still hadn't spoken, Shawn proposed this thought, letting Juliet know the truth about what had been going on with him.

"NO!" Lassiter bellowed, his anger bouncing off the tiles. He jerked his head to the side, ignoring the dizziness that came with the quick action. "You can't! They'll— they'll lock me up. Padded room. They think I'm—"

Startled, Shawn tried to calm the older man down before paranoia got the best of him. "Okay, okay. Just forget I said it. I wouldn't let that happen— I mean, I won't let that happen." He punched Lassiter's arm in the reassuring guy way. "You're not crazy, okay? I know you're not crazy."

After a few minutes, Lassiter nodded. His body had relaxed. "Can you help me stand?" he asked. "I should— I have to tell you what I remembered, and I don't want to do it here."

"Yeah," Shawn said. "All right." He pushed to his feet and then offered his hand to Lassiter. Lassiter grabbed his arm and pulled himself up, though his legs were numb with sleep. Shawn helped him keep his balance and walked the detective slowly to the living room, where Lassiter let go and sank into a chair. The journal was on the coffee table and Lassiter reached for it and a pen, and began scrawling what he had experienced, both at the kitchen sink and then in the bathroom. Shawn went to the kitchen, and poured Lassiter a glass of orange juice. He glanced at the still open cabinet door and the flashlight, still on, lying on the floor. The mystery goo would have to wait.

"Here, drink this." Shawn set the glass on the table but was too keyed up to sit. He felt like he needed to watch Lassiter like a hawk, just in case. He waited while Lassiter finished writing, and then while he took a gulp of juice. The detective seemed okay now, but how long would that last? Shawn was getting too uneasy thinking about leaving Lassiter here alone. What if he hadn't been there to brace Lassiter's fall in the bathroom? He may have ended up with a concussion, something Shawn may not have discovered until the next time he dropped by. _Why was all of this— intricate, elaborate, dangerous crap— being done to Lassiter? _

Lassiter glared up at him. "What are you staring at?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Shawn's mouth. There was the pissed off Lassiter he knew so well.

"What?" Lassiter continued, his frown deepening as Shawn broke into a smile.

"Nothing," Shawn muttered. _Just missed the old you, is all_, he thought, which was even more funny, because usually he wished Lassiter would just lighten up. "So, are you ready to talk about it now?"

Carlton glanced at the journal and then sighed. "Yeah."

Shawn bit his lip. "Just— take it easy. Stop if you need to."

Carlton nodded, wishing the kid wasn't so tense. He wouldn't even stand still, pacing a little in each direction every few seconds. "Look," he began, though wondered why he thought he needed to offer Spencer an apology. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

Shawn waved his hand. "I know, I know." He waited for Lassiter to tell him the memory, so Lassiter dropped the rest of what he may have said.

"There's something I didn't tell you about the Roman Cavaliere case," he began, starting at the image that had repeated itself while he stood at the bathroom mirror. It was there, again, working in slow motion to unravel him. When he spoke, his voice sounded far away to his own ears, but he fought hard to remain conscious. Lassiter gripped the arm of the chair until his knuckles turned white. "Maybe two weeks or three, after my then partner, Adam Marks and myself had closed the case— this is after Cavaliere was sentenced and had started his prison term— we got word that Cavaliere had been killed in jail."

Shawn nodded. "Right. You did tell me he was dead."

"We weren't involved in the investigation into his death, but we were eventually told that a fellow inmate had killed Cavaliere in retaliation— one of Cavaliere's drug laced necklaces had led to severe brain damage for a young girl, the only sister of the inmate." Shawn listened with wide eyes. He'd finally stopped pacing. "This man, who was already serving a life sentence for murder—"

The image flashed, dots of tiny light before him, so he was momentarily blinded by it. _The man's throat a wide gash, like a clown smile, and deep cuts had separated the skin from both eyes, his nose, and corners of his mouth all cleaved by purple-red blood, so thick it resembled gluey paint. His face was a mask of blood, pus, death. _

"We were only told," Lassiter continued with a croak, "the way Cavaliere had died. I never saw the body, but— but I keep imaging what it must have been like." He swallowed hard, thinking of the nightmare he'd had of Spencer's face in the same condition. "It was a horrible way to die, even for a criminal of his capacity." Lassiter told Spencer what he remembered of the raid, which had taken place in the summer of 1997, specifically the parts that had been in his dream. Adam Marks had been present and a dozen other undercover SBPD officers and detectives, as well as SWAT. "He— Cavaliere— just standing there."

"In the drug lab?" Shawn supplied.

"Yeah— well, not exactly, from the picture I got in my head. It was just a basement, musty." Lassiter told him about the incense, and then about the words he'd heard the man, presumably Cavaliere, utter, which he'd heard in Italian but understood in English.

"Wait a second," Shawn interrupted. "How is that possible?" He stared at Lassiter intently.

"I must have— heard someone say it at some point, maybe back in the days of the case."

"Can you say the Italian phrase?"

Lassiter looked unsure. He opened the journal to the pages where he'd written the phrase down, but it was in English. He mouthed the English, _How do we distinguish between I and not I?_ and tried to figure out the Italian corresponding words. After a minute, he shook his head. "I can hear it in my head, but only the translated part makes any sense."

"Do you know what it means, anyway?" Shawn asked. It was such a cryptic thing to find in a dream about a dead guy. Lassiter surprised him when he murmured that he thought it had something to do with death or dying. "All right, so you hear him say that, then what?"

"Then I saw that red gelatin stuff on my hands." Lassiter frowned. "It's like the dream I had during the interrogation, Spencer." Shawn nodded, though his throat felt dry. They were getting somewhere; the memories were linking up, but chartering this kind of darkness was very dangerous, he knew. Shawn knew that what had happened, they didn't want Lassiter to remember. He crossed his arms to hold back a shiver.

"While I was staring at this, uh, weird matter, the man turned around to face me." Lassiter's skin paled. "He— said that phrase from before, except only 'Between I and not I?'. You have to understand, I never saw the body. I have no idea why this, what I saw, is so vivid."

"Maybe you came across a crime scene photograph, Lassie, at some point, and the image stayed with you."

_Oh._ Lassiter hadn't considered this. But what had brought this image to the surface after all these years? A rushing against his temple, and he uncurled his good hand from the arm of the chair and pushed it against his head until the roar dulled. "Are you all right?" Spencer asked quietly. Carlton wanted to laugh humorlessly. Wasn't "no" blatant? He settled with not replying directly and continued softly with the image he'd seen in the dream, every gash and cut. After he finished speaking, he heard Spencer let out a small, disgusted sound.

"That's— holy crap, Lassie. No wonder you've passed out, like, six times since I've been here."

Lassiter frowned, staring at Spencer. "It wasn't six times. Was it?"

"I'm alluding to the fact that that's a pretty nasty image to convey, Lassie. Not to mention to have to carry around with you," Spencer told him, with his arms still crossed. He actually offered Lassiter a small look of admiration, as if telling the detective that he himself would have likely puked if he had a dream like that.

Shawn's eyes widened with a distant anxiety. _How terrifying_, he thought, _to have some dormant image like that just spring up after all this time._ "What else did you see?"

Lassiter walked Shawn through the rest, what he'd seen after the chilling scream, which Shawn figured was going to haunt him for a while. "So, you remembered that from the night they took you?"

Lassiter nodded. "You were right— that side table had been moved."

"Thank the spirits," Shawn couldn't help adding.

Lassiter ignored him. He thought about his reaction to whatever they had given him. "What must have been in the syringe—" Despite his fear, he really want to get his hands on these men who had kidnapped and drugged him and just brawl it out.

"Lassie," Shawn said suddenly, his voice pitching. He had been flipping through the journal back to Lassiter's first account of his abduction, and had scanned the description of the man who'd threatened Lassiter in the hospital. He stared at his list, and then stabbed his finger at the pages. "He kidnapped you."

"What?" Lassiter asked, sitting up straighter. He was trying to follow the kid's train of thought.

"This older guy, the one you just described with the leather brown skin, the mustache, the scar— Scar Guy," Shawn said excitably, "which you remember exposing after you almost got his mask off." Lassiter was silent. He wasn't certain he wanted to urge Spencer to continue. Shawn went over the parts of the list with Lassiter again, linking up that he was indeed the same person. Lassiter's eyes widened, and his mind raced back to that night. It was true; he could see the man's face clearly, even though the room had been dimly lit. He saw his face at these other times— _"You don't remember me. That is good." "How noble." "Donia, clean up Mr. Lassiter." "He'll be a good boy, or else." "You will pay dearly."_

"Oh, god," Lassiter breathed. It _was_ the same man, one of his kidnappers. His kidnapper had been right up in his face, turning his wrist enough to sprain it. It was no wonder he hadn't fought back; some part of his brain remembered the fear. "It's how he knew," he mumbled, barely audible. "How to hurt me."

"Before all this, do you think you'd ever seen him?"

Lassiter mulled it over, trying hard to find this man somewhere in his past. He shook his head. "I think that night, when I was kidnapped, was the first time I'd seen him." He knew he should feel something other than dread, now that he'd put an actual face to one of the kidnappers, but he felt shaken to his core. He tried to keep his face as neutral as possible.

"You think the other guy"_— who was Cybil, right?—_ "called him 'Notta'?" Shawn asked quickly, though Lassiter's mind was running slow like molasses. Lassiter heard Shawn flipping journal pages again. Shawn read through the loose pages from Lassiter's notepads again, where Lassie detailed the scene of the woman cleaning the blood from his hands. He read it through about five times before looking up, his eyes filled with knowing.

"Lassie, what if the other abductor— Sybil— didn't say _'Notta'_? What if he said, _'Notte'_?" Shawn pointed out.

_Notte. Like the woman's last name. Could the two be . . . related? _"Notte?" he repeated. Could this really be the name of the man with scar— his other abductor? "Notte."

Shawn watched Lassiter's reaction, wondering what he was thinking. He hoped all of this wasn't too much for the detective; Lassiter seemed to look paler as each second ticked by. He paced, making a larger sweep between the kitchen and the living room.

"Lassie, I need you to listen to me without— just listen, okay?" Shawn went back and took a seat across from Lassiter. "I think we have enough proof to— I think I need to go to Vick with all this." Lassiter didn't speak, but his mouth pulled into a hard line. "We figured out a lot of stuff. I can tell them that this Martey guy attacked me, maybe tried to abduct me. You got one name of a kidnapper, maybe the second too—"

"But no one else has seen that man," Lassiter injected, his voice reedy. "Notte, if that's his name."

"You don't know that. But didn't Detective Samuelson see the locksmith— Sybil, Lassie? And you also are a witness to a murder."

"Which they arrested me for committing."

"Why the hell are you resisting?" Shawn snapped suddenly, jumping from his chair. "Don't you want all this to be over?"

Lassiter dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Lassie, we've got those copies— you _were_ drugged, with Rohypnol. I've got those pictures I need to get developed of your car's condition. We've got everything right here in the journal." He was pacing again, trying to reign in his anger. "Are you really that freaked that Vick's just going to ignore all of this evidence?"

"She hasn't believed a word I've said so far."

Shawn made a fist, but relaxed it. "Then let me go to Jules." He'd promised he wouldn't betray her confidence, so he didn't elaborate to Lassiter why she might be the best candidate. All he could say was she was distraught about his situation. "Besides, you'll have my word as back up."

Lassiter hesitated. What if he let the kid do this, and it was the worst possible thing that could happen? He attempted to collect his thoughts and examine the logic of telling his partner, former partner or whatever she was considered right now, about the danger he was really in, when he heard Shawn yell. He was on his feet and at the kid's side faster than he'd realized was possible in his state.

Shawn was standing by Lassiter's front window. The evening had darkened, but the outside lights had come on automatically. Spencer was rigid, staring out the window at the figure who perched on the roof of Lassiter's sedan. She stared back at him, but spoke into a cell phone at her ear.

"Donia," Lassiter breathed with disbelief, staring out at her with shock.

"He knows. They both know," she was saying into her cell phone. Shawn could read her lips, even at this distance. Now that they knew she was there, she gracefully dropped from the roof to the ground, and smiled deviously at both of them. Shawn was on the move, getting to Lassiter's front door before the words, "Don't!" were out of his mouth. He'd only glanced away from Donia for a second; where was she? Lassiter peered around frantically, trying to find her. She wasn't a ghost— Spencer had just seen her.

By the time Shawn got outside, the woman was gone. He looked around frantically, checking each shadow but she was nowhere to be found. His heart pounded furiously, his head swimming a little with panic. _She couldn't have just vanished. Could she? _Shawn looked to the window, where Lassiter shrugged his shoulders with confusion. Shawn checked around for another few minutes and then dashed back inside.

It took him a long time to calm down; Shawn paced back and forth before Lassiter's locked door. Lassiter had opened the window and was leaning out as if he might have more luck finding out how she had disappeared so quickly. Finally, Shawn got his words out. "Lassie, I read her lips when she was sitting out there on your car."

Lassiter pulled his body back through the window, turning slowly. Spencer's face was white. "It doesn't make any— how, how she could know?" He started pacing again, throwing up his hands in frustration, fear.

"Know what?" Lassiter asked, the words bouncing around inside his head even after they hung in air of the room.

Shawn stopped pacing and held Lassiter's eyes. "She said, _'He knows. They both know.'_"

Carlton's brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "No. No." Disbelief unraveled around him, followed by a severe spike of fear. He felt lightheaded and had to grab something solid to steady himself. "You must have— read it wrong. How could—" The top of his head prickled with the sensation tiny pins poking his skin. "Bugged." The word slid out of his mouth and his knees buckled. _How much had they heard? For how long? _

"We can't know that," Shawn muttered, struggling to collect his thoughts. An idea struck him; the tank of goo under the sink. Its existence must be recent; because Lassiter's water hadn't turned red until today. He ran towards the kitchen as Lassiter knelt on the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. _I'm dead, I'm dead, _he thought over and over. _They're going to get in and kill me, now._

Shawn was busy shining the flashlight beam into the plastic container under the sink. It was too dark to make out anything but the goo, and trying to rip it off proved useless. When jiggled the gauge or timer or whatever it was, some small piece of metal came off in his hand. Cursing, he jumped to his feet. Shawn stared the small electronic device, which resembled a stud for some kind of body piercing. He held it up at eye level with awe and horror; something so small had been keeping tabs on them. Shawn turned to tell Lassie he'd found it and was stunned to see Lassiter huddled forward on the floor next to one of the air chairs. He crossed the gap between the rooms in a couple of seconds and knelt down next to the detective.

"Lassie?" Shawn asked, his voice raising a little. Lassiter was drenched with sweat, his eyes open but staring at something Shawn couldn't see. He was muttering, "I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead," like a broken record. Shawn shook his shoulder hard. "Lassiter!" Shawn yelled. Lassiter's eyelids drooped. "Open your eyes or I'll hit you again," Shawn threatened, shaking the older man again. Lassiter's body was impliable. Shawn felt like he was losing Lassiter to some kind of overwhelming terror. "No way," Shawn muttered with determination. "Not again."


	17. Chapter 16: Commit A Little Crime

**Chapter Sixteen: I'll Just Commit A Little Crime And Then I'll Take Back What I've Lost**

**_____________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Author's Note: This chapter contains much whumpage, just so you know.

**_____________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Shawn looked at the bug in his hand, which he had forgotten about momentarily, with growing rage. He pressed it between his forefinger and thumb, trying to crush it. It held. He jumped up, dropping the device to the floor and stomping it; all the while feeling ridiculous. _What if it were inactive, what if it were only some trick to enhance Lassiter's paranoia? Could there be another way the woman could have overhead them? Or had that been some kind of trick too?_ When Shawn looked at the device underfoot, he saw it had cracked apart in two places. He dropped to his knees again and slapped Lassiter's face as hard as he could, feeling ill when Lassiter's head jerked to one side. The detective's eyes snapped open, peering back with anger, but his face was still tight with a grimace.

"Listen to me," Shawn told him firmly, "you need to breathe." He sighed. "I found it, Lassie. I found the bug, and I destroyed it." He wasn't certain if he was telling Lassiter a lie or the the truth, but he figured as long as it helped Lassiter stop freaking out, it didn't matter at this moment. Shawn jumped and ran into the bathroom. He dug around, looking for a small towel or washcloth, and finally put his hands on some kind of cloth. He turned on the cold faucet and pressed the towel under the water, barely wringing it out so that water dripped across the floor on his way back to the living room. He noticed vaguely that the water was clear and not crimson. Shawn ran the cloth over Lassiter's face, moping up the sweat that had made Lassiter's skin slick. After a few minutes, Lassiter's hand reached up and took the cloth from Shawn's hands. The detective sighed, the breath slightly wheezy, and managed to sit back on his heels.

"Are you all right?" Shawn demanded, looking Lassiter over. Lassiter's breathing was returning to normal, his skin no longer pale nor flushed. Lassiter blinked a few times and then mumbled an apology. "What happened?"

Lassiter shrugged. He didn't really know himself, other than it was at times like these that fear completely took control of his body. "I just get scared," he mumbled so softly Shawn wasn't sure he'd heard right. Lassiter didn't say anything else, and looked at the floor in front of him.

Shawn got up to give Lassiter some space and time to collect himself. He shot the offending mechanical device a nasty look and then walked around the kitchen island and opened Lassiter's fridge. Most of the food he'd purchased at the grocery store was still there, untouched. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the detective was remembering to eat. There wasn't any bottled water; Shawn speculated that Lassie could drink from the bathroom tap until Shawn could make a water run. But with everything that had just happened, he was determined to make Lassiter understand they couldn't sit on this evidence any longer.

When Shawn turned around, he saw that Lassiter had managed to get up and had pressed his back against the chair, with a resigned look on his face. "You okay?"

Lassiter nodded, though his voice was still small, "For now."

Shawn ran a through his hair. "Tomorrow, we go to Juliet with all this," he told Lassiter firmly. "This is— it's all out of control. I think you need to get checked out by doctors again; plus," Shawn added, feeling sheepish, "I'm not sure I'm doing the best job protecting you."

Lassiter looked up in surprise, but Shawn wasn't looking in his direction. He wasn't sure how to respond to that.

Shawn continued to look away. "Whether or not that girl was actually watching us, and if she really said what I think she said— you've been carrying this whole thing around way too long. Not knowing if you were guilty— until now."

"Okay," Lassiter said. Shawn finally glanced towards him, a questioning 'what?' in his eyes. "Okay, I'll go to Vick. I'll tell them everything." He made a sound that may have been a dry laugh. "I'll probably faint, but they already give me those "you're-so-crazy" looks anyway."

Shawn smiled, thinking, _That's the spirit, Lassie._ "Look, do you want me to, uh, act as your bodyguard— stay here on the couch, just in case?"

Lassiter thought about it but eventually said no. "I think I'll be okay," he told Shawn. "Besides, I think maybe you should take the journal and put it in a safe—r place," he amended when he thought Spencer would repeat his offer to stand guard. It was a thoughtful offer, but he didn't really like the idea of Spencer crashing on his couch. Besides that, it might be better if Spencer weren't around here— his apartment was a pretty dangerous place, Carlton reasoned. He could handle— well, sort of handle— someone's anger against him, but he still didn't want to see the kid get hurt because of him. At least, not again.

"Okay," Shawn agreed, though still reluctant to leave the detective alone, especially since he'd passed out three times and because he'd remembered a lot of heavy stuff. Then there was the girl . . . He sighed aloud, feeling goosebumps raise on his arms. "I'll drop by around 9 tomorrow morning, okay?"

Lassiter nodded.

"I'll get those copies from my dad, and bring the journal back, and then I'll call Jules, and then we can just go from there."

Lassiter nodded again, taking in a deep breath. _Maybe it's a sound plan,_ he reflected, though fear was racing through his veins, making his heart slam in his chest so loudly he was certain it was audible. He closed and locked the door behind Spencer, and then went and closed the front window, securing the latch. All the lights in his front rooms were still on, and he found he didn't want to turn them off yet. Carlton went to his fridge, and poured some juice into glass. He took it to the couch and sipped it like it was a strong drink. Looking around, he saw things out of place; the damp towel half on the rug, the flashlight in the kitchen, still turned on, but he had no desire to clean any of that up. He managed only a quarter of the juice before bringing his legs to his chest and pivoting to stretch out on his sofa. Carlton propped his head on one of the arms and stared at the ceiling. Before long, all of the images, memories, current events made their way in long procession before his open eyes. It was exhausting. Eventually, sleep creeped in, and he dozed.

* * *

Henry Spencer was awakened by a persistent knocking on his front door. He glanced at his bedside clock, annoyed to see it was 10:53 pm, because he'd gone to bed over an hour ago. The knocking wasn't overly loud, but it wasn't going away either. Throwing back his covers with a curse, Henry shrugged into a terry cloth robe and padded down the hallway barefoot. He turned on the porch light, and glanced through the peephole. He cursed again and opened the door blearily, his mouth pulled to its limit into a frown.

"For the love of god, Shawn," Henry growled.

"Hi, dad," Shawn said with a twinkle in his eye. "Can I come in?"

"It's almost 11:00. I was asleep." His frown somehow deepened.

"Sorry," Shawn mumbled insincerely. "I need to add some things to the contents of your safe." He had dropped his voice when he said this, as if someone who might be near could hear. Henry's street was quiet; the upstairs lights on in some of the houses, but not many. As he started to walk in, Henry's hand caught him in the chest.

"Jesus, do you ever think of anyone but yourself?" Henry whined, running a hand over his head. Shawn frowned, but refused to comment. He pulled Henry's hand from his chest and started to ease around his father. "Couldn't this have waited until morning?" Henry still tried protesting, but he knew trying to talk his son out of something was pretty much a waste of breath.

"No, dad, it really couldn't." Shawn wandered through the dark house, remembering he wasn't sure where the safe was.

"Why not?" Henry said, closing the door and during on the living room light.

"'Cause," Shawn began, "I have to come back in the morning and pick it up." For the first time, Henry saw that Shawn was holding an overstuffed leather-bound journal and a disposable camera.

"What's that?"

"It's better if you don't know," Shawn told him, suddenly seeming reluctant to hand it over.

Henry ran his tongue across his teeth angrily. "Tell me what the hell is so important that—"

Shawn rolled his eyes and bunched a fist, but caught himself before anything he couldn't take back slipped out. "It's just important." He said it slowly, as if speaking to a child. Henry's face was still impassible. "You think I'd be here if I didn't—" Shawn snapped suddenly, then clamped his mouth closed. "Look, I know you find this hard to believe, but I need your help. There, I said it." Shawn spit out the words, his frown matching his father's.

Henry seemed to want to spit back something nasty, but held his tongue. He threw up his hands. "Fine, Shawn. I'll put it with those pages you gave me." He held out a hand to accept the journal and camera. "I just wish you give me some insight."

"They're unbelievably substantial to the case I'm working on," Shawn relented. "I just need to know that they're in a safe place, K?" He was still holding the journal even though Henry had his fingers around it.

Henry's eyes narrowed again. "This is the Lassiter case, Shawn?"

Shawn huffed but let go of the journal. The camera slid from his fingers but he caught it and tossed it to Henry. "Yes, dad. Please don't ask me for any more details." He crossed his arms. "I know _you_ wouldn't believe it a million years, but I'm trying to do a good thing here."

Henry was taken aback, but only a flicker of it showed in his eyes. "Shawn."

Shawn was headed back towards the front door. "I'll be back around 8:45 am to get everything, okay?"

Henry's eyes widened a little. "That's awfully early, for you, kid."

"Yeah, well, I don't think I'll be able to sleep that much anyway," Shawn mumbled cryptically.

Henry's hand closed around Shawn's left elbow; a look of pain crossed his son's face. It took Henry a couple of seconds to realize that this was the arm with the nasty bruise on it. He released Shawn's arm, asking, "You care to explain that?"

Shawn was standing on the front stoop by now. He turned to face his father halfway, but his eyes rested on Henry's neck rather than his eyes. "It's nothing," he mumbled faintly. Shawn's eyes drifted up then, figuring he'd have to offer something reassuring or have his father drag him in the house to explain everything. And he was just too tired now to talk about it all. "You were a cop," Shawn said softly. Henry's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Well," Shawn continued tiredly, "imagine you get accused of something that you didn't do, but no one believes in you." His father looked confused, so Shawn couldn't even be certain if he was making any sense. He sighed. "I guess, if I were in that situation, it would just be nice to have someone on my side." Shawn offered a lopsided grin. "Even it were the most unlikely person." Henry stared back but didn't say anything.

"If you don't mind, Dad, I am kind of tired." Ire pulled Henry's features tight; Shawn barely suppressed a wicked grin. "And I'm sure _you'd_ like to get back to sleep."

"Fine, kid," Henry grumbled. "See ya in the morning, then."

"Yeah," Shawn said, with a yawn. He was really feeling the fatigue of the evening's events all of a sudden. "See ya."

* * *

_The man he so feared grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugged and yanked until Lassiter's face was centimeters from his. His breath stank of wine. He pressed his mouth against Lassiter's ear and whispered one word. "Cavaliere."_

_Lassiter shook his head, though he couldn't turn it too far. _

_"You did this," the man snarled. Lassiter's eyes darted from the man's hard brown eyes to the white scar. "You will pay dearly." _

* * *

_"Cavaliere." _Lassiter jerked awake, his eyes going wide as he heard the man's one whispered word— from the memory that had come back to him yesterday. "Oh, my god," Lassiter said aloud, hearing his voice shake. Spencer had been right. Spencer had been right—

He had no time to move from the couch where he'd slept or form another lucid thought before a loud bang on his front door splintered the wood. Another bang, then another, and the door swung open, hitting the opposite wall with a jarring reverberation. A huge hulk of a man, at a height of six foot three, leered at Lassiter from the door frame, completely filling it up. He had huge broad shoulders, a squat but muscular square torso and bulky arms. His gloved hands were as big as Lassiter's head— _skull crusher hands_, he remembered with shock. The man was not wearing a mask; Lassiter recognized him immediately.

Alarm drove Lassiter to his feet. Without thinking, he scooped up his cell phone, which was on the table in front of him, and dialed Spencer's number.

The man— Marte— wore a scowl on his square flat face as he stepped into Lassiter's apartment. He slammed the front door shut; it didn't close all the way because it was broken.

Spencer's phone rang and rang. _Come on,_ Lassiter thought, keeping one eye on the LCD screen and the other on Marte. "What do you want?" he called out, taking a few backward steps towards his front window. Marte didn't answer but continued his slow advance. He shook his head curtly at Lassiter's steps. Faintly, Lassiter heard Spencer's voice mail greeting, then a beep. Icy fear surged through his skin.

"You not going anywhere," Marte spoke up.

Lassiter reached out behind him, fumbling with one hand to unlatch the window. He took a shallow breath and then yelled into the phone, "Spencer, I need help!" He had only dropped his eyes for a few seconds when a huge paw smacked the phone from his hand. It skitted out onto the tile of the kitchen floor, coming to rest under a cabinet. Lassiter's head shot up with shock; breathing heavily, he barely managed to duck before Marte's fist smashed the window where his face had been only seconds before. The punch was hard enough to shatter the glass. Lassiter winced but attempted to move out of range. He heard another pounding against the glass; some cracked and fell close to his face. "Help!" Lassiter cried out, hoping someone on the street could hear him.

"You shut your mouth or I shut it for you!" Marte growled. He clapped his hands around Lassiter's wrists, dragging him upward so that his face was inches from Marte's steely eyes.

"Let go of me!" Lassiter yelled back. Some spittle landed on his attacker's face. Carlton lashed a foot towards Marte's shins; the man grunted, his scowl deepening. Marte pivoted to his right, swinging Lassiter away from him— and directly into a wall. Pain jarred up his left shoulder to his teeth as Carlton slid to the floor. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled ungracefully to his feet. _God, I wish they hadn't taken all my guns,_ he thought wildly. His head and heart pounded. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to judge how far away the door was as well as his proximity to Marte; he cried out as something sharp sliced his face. Glancing up with horror, he realized Marte was too close, and had managed to cut him with a rather large shard of glass, which was now dripping with his blood.

"You son of a bitch," Lassiter growled, balling his fist for a punch. He landed one solidly on Marte's jaw, but Marte clamped a hand over Lassiter's brace, squeezing it as if trying to get juice from a lemon. Tears stung Lassiter's eyes; he gritted his teeth. Marte shoved Lassiter backwards, straight into the broken window. Carlton bit his lip, feeling tiny pieces of glass cut into his back. Marte was on him, taking another swipe with the large shard. Lassiter moved, but the glass bit through the white fabric of his shirt, to the left of the buttons. When he realized that the shard had pierced more than his clothes, Lassiter's right arm shot out, knocking the glass from Marte's hand. The piece sliced Marte's fingers on its way to the floor. The pain in Carlton's right wrist was blinding for a moment; he backed away from the broken window.

Lassiter tried to take stock of his surroundings when he heard a rush of air; Marte had lobbed something right at his face. Lassiter brought his arms up quickly to shield himself; the heavy paperweight hit him squarely on the left forearm. Before it had even hit the floor, a round, red welt was raising on his arm. He had half a second to recover before another object slammed into his hands; involuntarily, he dropped them. Then another; a sharp, wooden corner of an object blurred as it came towards him, crashing into his nose. Lassiter grunted; blood dripped from his nostrils onto his hands. Breathing hard, he noticed that Marte was only a foot away. An arm shot out, but Lassiter managed to duck and aimed a punch at Marte's face, catching the brute's cheek; his knuckles turned red.

Lassiter's right elbow jabbed Marte's throat, but the man didn't seem the least affected by the blow. He smacked Lassiter's arm to his side and then swung a right-cross. Lassiter staggered backwards several unsteady steps at the punch; his left eye stung, on fire. Marte punched again, this time landing an upper cut to Carlton's mouth, splitting his lip. Carlton's mouth gushed with blood. He ran his tongue around in his mouth, checking for missing or loose teeth, but they all were intact. As an odd thought came to him, Marte swung another blow at his stomach, hitting him solidly in the solar plexus. With the wind knocked from him, Carlton ended up flat on his back, gasping for breath. Some of the blood from his split lip trickled down his throat and he coughed, grasping his stomach and turning his head to spit out the blood. From here, he could see that the broken door was ajar; how much he wanted to call out for help.

Marte bent down, grasping a fistful of Carlton's dark brown hair tightly. He tugged with strength that Lassiter suspected was very minor, and Lassiter's body inched along the floor. It was hard to reconcile that earlier thought, that Marte was holding back, especially now that Carlton was struck with an uncanny feeling that Marte was the one who had attacked Shawn in the alley. _But they had determined that, right?_ The thought flashed and he grunted, spitting out some salivia mixed with blood when Marte yanked painfully on his hair again. _This is not good._ He needed to get back to his feet . . . despite how woozy he was feeling. He patted the floor with his left arm, trying to find something solid to hold onto; then he did the same with his legs. His long legs wrapped around something, a table, maybe, and he used it to resist Marte's hold, even though it seemed like the man was going to rip out large chunks of his hair. Marte yanked harder, trying to shake Lassiter's legs loose from the table.

"You much too stubborn," Marte growled. He let go of Lassiter's hair, kicking Lassiter's ribs with moderate force. Lassiter moaned, feeling pain explode all over his chest. When he brought his leg back for another kick, Carlton dodged, rolling away from Marte and onto his stomach. He'd gotten to his knees when Marte's foot glanced his ribs again. Tears streamed down his face; Marte landed another kick, but Lassiter managed to teeter to his feet. He dashed for the kitchen, knowing he needed to get his hands around a weapon, preferably something big and sharp, like a butcher's knife or a meat cleaver.

Another object whizzed at his head; hard plastic smashed into his cheek under his right eye and then clattered to the tile floor. His clothes were sticking to his skin, soaked with sweat and blood. Marte was taking quicker steps towards him; Lassiter felt around behind him until his hands closed around a metal handled knife with a long triangular blade. He brought it out in front of him as a way to separate himself from the fast approaching threat. He was having a hard time grasping the handle because his hands were slick with sweat. "Stay away from me," Lassiter said, aghast that his voice wouldn't go above a whisper.

The man menaced towards him, forcing him backwards around the island, threatening to block his only escape path at any moment should he change direction.

"You try your fight," Marte said, almost matter-of-factly. "You lose."

"No!" Lassiter cried, still in a whisper. The door was right there; if he stretched his fingers out a couple of inches, he could touch it. Lassiter leaned towards it, his fingers brushed the door knob. Marte sprang, closing the gap between them at a speed much faster than seemed possible for a man of his size. He swatted the knife from Lassiter's hands as if were a toy. Terrified now, his throat constricted with panic. Lassiter fumbled to open the door; both of Marte's hands closed around his shoulders, spinning him so that Lassiter was facing the partially closed door. Marte pulled Lassiter tight against his chest, and one of his arms slipped across Lassiter's throat. Lassiter fought the chokehold, digging the fingernails of his left hand into Marte's arm. Marte applied his arm in a steady squeeze; blue dots popped in front of Carlton's eyes. Fighting back was becoming useless; he choked, going blue with panic when he found he couldn't take in enough air for one solid breath.

"This not the end," Marte spoke into Lassiter's ear. His lungs burned, his head swam, with big black dots bursting before his vision. Lassiter's knees buckled, his swollen eyes closing.

* * *

Wanting to pick up some copies of the articles he and Juliet had researched before going to his father's, Shawn pulled his bike up to the Psych office just after 8 am. He thought that, though they might not have complete relevance to the murder investigation, it couldn't hurt to have them in hand. Shawn sighed. He figured it was going to be hard to really convince Vick, so he wanted to be as prepared as possible. He wondered if he had enough time to do research about any kind of drugs that may be able to control a person; well, he'd have to see how things went. Before he started collecting papers, Shawn checked his messages and found that he had a new voice mail. He'd turned his phone on an hour ago, when he'd woken up to get ready, but it had been on silent.

The call was received at 7:31 am, from Lassiter's cell. At first, Shawn wondered if Lassie was having second thoughts about talking to Vick. "You better not," he mumbled as he put the phone to his ear. Shawn listened to the message, confusion clouding his eyes, then a tight knot of dread wrapped his throat closed. The first thing he heard was heavy breathing, and could almost sense the accelerated heart rate. Then he heard Lassiter cry out in panic, _"Spencer! I need help!"_ After that, it sounded like the device had been dropped, or thrown, because he heard a clatter. He could make out distant voices, including more cries for help, and the sounds of a brawl. His hands felt numb. Lassie had called him and he hadn't been there to answer.

Swallowing a few times to moisten his dry mouth, Shawn saved the voice mail and called Lassiter's cell phone. It rang four times before it was answered. Shawn began speaking immediately. "Lassie, did you call me? Are you okay? What's going on?" Shawn paused to let Lassiter explain, but there was only silence listening to him. He pressed a hand through his hair hastily, and continued. "Are you hurt? Do you need me—" Shawn broke off suddenly when he heard heavy breathing, but his eyes widened, realizing that he might not be talking to Lassiter. If there had been a fight, in Lassiter's apartment— _oh, god_. Shawn pushed the "end call" button, fear coursing through his body. He clenched and unclenched his fists to ward off shaking, and started to call Juliet, but stopped. Instead, he went to the Psych office phone and called from there, keying up his cell phone with the voice mail he'd received, just in case the junior detective hesitated.

She answered after two rings. "Detective O'Hara."

"Jules, it's me. Shawn." His voice wavered a little but he gritted his teeth.

"Shawn, what's the matter?" she asked. He could hear her frown.

"You need to get over to Lassiter's apartment. Now," he urged, and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "I think he's— Please, just trust me."

"What? Why?" Juliet was on an instant alert. "What's happened?"

"I don't know exactly. Look, Jules, Lassie's in some kind of trouble." When she started to interrupt him, he pressed on, raising his voice. "Jules, _please_. He called me, like twenty-five minutes ago, but got my voice mail. I need you to listen to the message, okay?" She said okay, warily, and he got his cell phone and put it up to the receiver and pressed play. Hearing the message again made him feel like puking.

When it was over, he heard her say, "Oh, my god!" He heard her calling to some officers who must be near her, telling one or another to get Chief Vick.

"Please, can you get over there? I'm at the Psych office right now. I can meet you over there in about 10 minutes. I'm going to call 911 first and then I'll be on my way."

"Okay," she said, now breathless, and hung up.

Shawn dialed 911 and told the dispatcher as calmly as possible who was hurt and where to send the ambulance. "What kind of emergency is this?" the woman asked.

"I— I think there was a bad fight. It was a home invasion, I know that for sure." He explained a little about the phone call he'd received. "I already called the police, and they're on their way," he said. He was antsy. He needed to get on his bike and find out what was going on. _Goddammit_. The one freaking time he'd put his phone on silent— _No use beating yourself up over it,_ he told himself, wincing hard at his own inner phrasing.

He hung up the phone, and patted his pockets for his keys. He reached out to grab his helmet when the Psych office door opened, and then closed. Shawn looked up slowly, starting to tell whomever had come in that the office was closed right now, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth. A tall Caucasian man with flat dark hair had crossed the threshold, ropey muscular biceps straining his black t-shirt. The man had broad shoulders and a square torso, and the rest of him seemed to be solid muscle as well. Shawn felt instantly dwarfed by the man's great size, and took a tentative step backwards without realizing it. He noticed the guy was holding something in his massive palms, though it looked like a toy comparatively.

"Uh, can I help you?" Shawn asked in a small voice, looking into the man's dark eyes.

"You can, actually," the man, maybe in his mid-thirties, said, with the trace of an accent. He took a step towards Shawn, pressing some buttons on the toy, which Shawn realized was a cell phone. He stood there stupidly, not knowing what to do. The phone in his own hands rang, and Shawn yipped, startled, when he noticed his phone's screen read "incoming call: Lassie".

The man nodded once, though it seemed curt because the man appeared to have no neck, just more muscle there. He took another step towards Shawn. "That's what I think." Shawn noticed for the first time that the man was wearing gloves, and that the knuckles seemed to have something sticky on them.

Fear shot from Shawn's heart to his face, then straight down to his toes, causing every inch of his skin to prickle. "What— what did you think?" He was struggling with his cell phone, trying to ignore the incoming call, so maybe _he_ could call for help, before things got out of hand; his thoughts raced wildly. He kept pressing the wrong buttons because he wouldn't let himself take his eyes off the man's face.

The man smirked a little, though it was harsh on his broad face. "I think that the detective called you— and I was right," he replied calmly. Shawn hadn't backed up as far as he thought he had; he jumped when the hulk swatted an arm towards him and snatched the phone from his hands. Some of the wetness from the glove got on his fingers.

"The— detective?" Shawn glanced at what had been transferred to his hands. It was red, unmistakable. Shawn's vision was growing a little fuzzy. He blinked hard, moving away from the man, who was blocking the only exit and now had his cell phone.

"That's right," the hulk affirmed, still calm. He dropped Lassiter's cell phone and crushed it under his heel, and then kicked it backwards. It slid under one of the desks. Then he yanked the battery out of Shawn's phone and threw it— Shawn thought, at his head; he ducked fast with a cry. The battery pack hit the wall behind him. Shawn straightened up in time to hear the man crushing the rest of his phone under his foot.

"What— what did you do to Lassiter?" Shawn forced the words out. Terrified, he tried to sort out his thoughts. The man was much too big, his eyes too dark; he seemed to be taking in all the air in the office.

"He'll live," the man said, as if bored. Shawn choked back a cry, wanting to demand more of Lassie's fate, but not being able to feel his voice. That scared him. He needed to yell for help, and worked to gather his breath.

The brute seemed amused by Shawn's efforts. "You no scream, like last time?" he asked, trying a smile with some teeth.

Shawn's eyes popped wide, his mouth falling open in shock. _Like last time? What in the hell could he be—_ "No," Shawn whispered, his eyes taking in the size of the man's hands. The bruise, still detectable as a hand print, throbbed dully with phantom pain.

"You get away from me last time," the man continued, "but you no be so lucky this time."

"You can't—" Shawn mumbled. He stumbled on something behind him; he hadn't even been aware he was still moving backwards. Sooner or later, he would literally have his back to a wall. His right hand slid across his desk, and gripped something familiar and solid. At first he couldn't place what it was; then he knew. _The land line. Will I have time to dial before he's inches from my face? _Dully, his senses registered that this was likely ran through Lassie's mind the night he was kidn— It was hitting Shawn hard, like physical blows. He didn't want to be kidnapped. Which was likely exactly what Lassiter thought when he was in that situation.

Shawn grabbed the phone and started to dial. He saw the brute quicken his pace, and when the man was half a foot away, Shawn hurled the phone squarely at the man's face. It smashed into his nose with a sickening crunch. The man groaned, but Shawn didn't stick around the see if his nose was gushing. Giving the man a wide berth, he circled around him, scrambling for the door. All of it much too _deja vu_, much too running away in that alley, huffing like he'd just run a marathon. The door was in sight, was close. His mind registered the quick thud of footsteps, but he ignored them.

Shawn screamed. The man had his blood soaked gloved fingers wrapped around a huge wad of Shawn's hair, and he jerked Shawn backwards hard. Tears surged into Shawn's eyes, the top of his skull on fire. Shawn's neck was tilted at an awkward angle; pain jolted from the base of his head to the middle of his back.

"Let go of me!" Shawn yelled, his voice thick. A hand clamped down over his mouth. Shawn struggled, trying to pry the hand away. He stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance, as he was pulled in close to the man's barrel chest. Shawn felt the man's hot breath on the side of his face, and then something wet trickled onto the front of his shirt. He couldn't see what it was because the hand over his mouth and the hand in his hair were pretty much immobilizing his head. Kicking. He hadn't tried that yet. _Not since . . . last time. _He kicked back; hitting something solid that could have been a kneecap, or a quad. A shin? It actually jarred his own leg, but he tried it again until there was another sharp twist and then tug on his hair. Shawn yelled in pain into the hand, wishing someone on the boardwalk had heard his screams. He elbowed his attacker's ribs with his right arm a few times, though this also seemed retroactive since a surge of pain traveled from Shawn's elbow to his shoulder blade. Tears raked his eyes when there was another painful twist of his hair. He suspected that if the man had a third arm, it would be clamped around his right arm, squeezing an identical bruise into it.

"I am not 'aupposed to hurt you. Much," the man admitted, though couldn't resist giving Shawn's hair another hard tug. Shawn let out another muffled cry.

_What the hell does that mean?_ Shawn thought wildly, his eyes darting around the office. Both of his hands were free; _was there anything close he could put his fingers around? Anything? _He waved his hands around at his side until he banged into the edge of one of the desks. Shawn walked the fingers of his left hand across the desk, straining against the hold. His pinky and ring fingers grazed something. Like the phone, he stretched to touch it and had it motion before he realized what it was. A stapler that was slippery in his sweaty, non dominant hand. Shawn bashed his attacker in the side of the face, maybe his ear, until the metal slid from his fingers. The man howled, loosening both his hands. Shawn took it, wriggling out of them fast, sliding to the floor and crawling away. He could still feel the hands on him even though they were gone.

The man's hand closed around the back of his neck, halting him, mid-crawl. He couldn't think clearly; why had he stayed on the floor? "No," Shawn grumbled, twisting his neck under the brute's hands. He kicked back again, connecting with something, because there was a grunt. _No way in hell did he want this man's hands around his neck._ With the flat of his hand, the man shoved Shawn face forward toward the floor. Shawn broke the fall with his forearms, shielding his face, but remained prone, his thoughts foggy. A few tears that slid down his cheeks pooled on his folded arms. _This is no time to be scared. _Shawn inched forward on his stomach, but protested when the man's hands encircled his ankles, dragging him feet first further into the office. He wriggled hard, trying to get his hands around a solid object, and tried to kick, but was startled when the man stopped tugging and flipped him onto his back. He had no time to shield his face before the man's fist hit his cheek, just below his right eye. He groaned, bright yellow stars bursting before his eyes. Shawn heard the man move around him; he may have heard the office door being locked. His face hurt terribly, and he was having a hard time collecting his thoughts. It seemed they'd just been bashed in and splattered all over the office like brain matter after a bullet to the head. A short while later, pressure on Shawn's ankles resumed and he was dragged into the office, towards one of the larger windows. He tried once to sit up, but his body ached too much for that kind of movement. The man grabbed his shoulders and flipped him back onto his stomach. Shawn's chin bounced against the floor and he moaned. _How much worse could this get?_ Dimly, he wondered where the police could be. Or the ambulance. Hadn't he called them? _Oh, yeah. I didn't call them for me,_ he remembered, nodding to himself.

Shawn's arms were pulled from his side roughly behind his back, his wrists secured together with some kind of cord. He couldn't count how many times the cord snaked between his wrists, but once the knots had been tied, Shawn found he there wasn't any space between his hands, his wrists rubbing against the other, a little painfully. He tugged at them again, but they wouldn't move. He flopped his hands on his back, nothing. God, did his face ache. He thought he should be more scared by the fact that his arms weren't responding, but he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. Shawn realized he must have dozed for at least a few seconds, because when he came to, he couldn't move his legs other than to bend his knees. Cord had been wrapped around his jeans, keeping his ankles immobilized. He started to protest. He didn't like this. _I have to get out of here—_ Shawn's eyes widened, and he remembered what was going on. He started an intense struggle, useless, now that he was bound hand and foot.

"Let me go, you creep!" Shawn cried out, his voice sounding funny against the floor. "You won't get me far! The police are on their way," he continued, more bravely than he felt. He tried to turn his head to find the man, but his line of vision didn't go very far in either direction. "Let me gawh!" His protest was cut off as the man bent over him and pulled a thick cloth between his teeth, tying it tightly behind Shawn's head. Fear and panic came at once, washing over him like waves. His whole body shook. _This was really happening. This creep was going to take him out of here and no one even knew that he was in any trouble_. Shawn recalled that he hadn't mentioned to Juliet what he'd encountered when he'd called Lassiter's phone; it had escaped his mind due to his worry over what condition Lassie could be in.

The man wedged his hands around Shawn's waist and lifted him so he dangled vertically, his feet about a foot from the ground, carrying him as easily as if he were a doll. Shawn struggled, twisting his torso, his eyes white as if he were held at a much higher level from the floor. The man plopped him down on top of one of the desks, his feet hanging over the edge as if it were any normal day where he would have hopped onto the desk. Shawn saw that the blinds on all the windows had been drawn; that must have been done during one of the points he was between consciousness. This felt like a horrible prank; he could scarcely believe he was gagged and bound, sitting on a desk in his office, waiting for the man to . . . what? Where was he? Shawn reached behind, his fingers found papers or files, which he pushed onto the floor quickly. He couldn't move his hands too far back, but he grazed something round and smooth; he used both hands to shove it. It rolled and tumbled off the desk with a thud.

Reappearing in front of him, the brute made a fist and feigned a punched at Shawn's face. Shawn flinched, trying to duck his head. The man ruffled his hair, and chuckled. Shawn glared at him, his anger sudden and out of control. He cursed into the gag. "Now, now, I haveh you," the man told him, amusedly. "Now, you sleep."

_What?_ Shawn had only a half second for the word to form in his head before the man's hand was pressing against his mouth again; there was a cloth in his hand. _No. No,_ Shawn thought, trying to turn his head. He had no choice but to breathe it in; even a shallow inhale burned his nostrils and throat. It was on his tongue, at the sides of his jaws, and he breathed in again. Shawn's eyes watered; the chemical was in his eyes now, behind his eyes, in his head, telling him, _only sleep, only sleep. _He held out for as long as he could, but the rhythm of his own breath and chemical in his mouth and in his nose ushered him towards unconsciousness. Shawn closed his eyes, and slumped forward.

_* * *_

"Detective O'Hara, what's this about?" Vick asked curtly, frowning. She had been called from her desk by Officer Hamilton, who'd told her Juliet urgently requested her presence outside.

Juliet was flustered; a few stray hairs had been worried out of her bun. "Can I please explain on the way, Chief?" She was already heading towards the exit, motioning some officers, Hamilton and McNab among them, with her. "I'll drive," Samuelson called behind him, catching Juliet's eye. She nodded, and he disappeared out the doors. Out of the corner of her eye, Juliet noticed Vick was frozen in her spot on the floor. Juliet swung around to face her superior. "Shawn just called me, and had me listen to a voice mail he apparently received from Lassiter. There was a fight."

"A fight?" Vick asked blankly, blinking.

"Chief— I heard Lassiter's voice on Shawn's phone. He yelled that he needed help."

"What?" Vick's mouth dropped open. Her veins felt as if they were pumping ice.

"Shawn was scared," Juliet told Karen, which seemed to unfreeze her. "He said he would call 911 before he left the Psych office to meet us there."

"911?" Vick's eyes widened. "Did you call Lassiter? Could he explain?"

"We've been trying and trying— there's no answer on either of his phones, Chief." Vick got in step with Juliet on the way out. Juliet explained what she had heard from the voice mail, pushing back tears.

Vick listened, feeling sick to her stomach. "All right, let's hurry then." She couldn't really let herself imagine what O'Hara had just said had really happened. _Why would it happen? How?_ Karen shook her head fiercely, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. This was a— bad joke, in poor taste. That was all.

_* * *_

By the time they pulled up in front of Lassiter's apartment, an ambulance with flashing lights was already parked outside. They rushed inside, but Vick stopped dead a few feet from Lassiter's doorway. She felt O'Hara push around her but then also stop.

"Oh, my god!" Juliet yelled. She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears coming to her eyes.

There were two paramedics already inside, tending to Lassiter, who was lying bloodied and unconscious on the floor near the door. Lassiter's skin was white, his hands torn up at the knuckles. The fingernails on both hands were stained red. His right arm was tossed to the side; the brace on his wrist looked cracked. On his left forearm, an ugly welt. _So much blood—_ His face seemed the worst, his cheeks cut badly— his left eye swollen, a dark purple bruise already forming over the skin. The right eye had a red bruise beneath it, and there was a nasty gash near his eyebrow. His nose was swollen and bleeding, and his mouth and chin were so red that Juliet couldn't discern what was wrong. His hair was matted down in the center of his head. One of the paramedics had cut the bloody white shirt apart and was probing Carlton's ribs; on his left side, there was a long cut from his collar bone to the middle of his stomach, and it was oozing red. As she slowly approached, she saw a dark pink line across Lassiter's throat.

"Oh, my god," Juliet repeated, tears sliding down her face. "Is he—?" she choked out.

One of the paramedics, a young woman with short red hair, looked up. "He's alive. His breathing is shallow— but his pulse is pretty strong. See here?" She pointed to the line on Carlton's neck. "It's very likely that he was choked unconscious." Juliet nodded dumbly. The woman seemed to be waiting for her to identify herself, when Vick burst into the room, Samuelson and McNab and some other officers behind her. She quickly identified herself and her detectives and officers.

"Do you know his name, Chief Vick?" the male paramedic asked.

"Det— Carlton Lassiter," Vick stated, able to stop herself before uttering the word; but then it didn't matter because she heard herself say, "He's one of my detectives."

The apartment was torn apart— _this time,_ Vick reflected grimly— signs of struggle were obvious. Blood was on everything, large pools of it on the carpeting, the white tile kitchen floor. The front window was smashed to hell; so was the front door. Household items were strewn about; some had been covered with sticky redness.

"How is he?" Vick asked tightly. Looking down at Lassiter, she had to suppress the urge to vomit. She kept waiting for him to twitch, to give her some sign that he was going to be all right, but he didn't move once.

"Lacerations on his back, here on his chest, his face— looks like he was stabbed with broken glass." Juliet was eyeing a pile a smashed glass near the window; she noticed a large, jagged shard streaked with blood. "Bruised ribs. Shiner on his left eye here, cuts and bruises on his face, here, here. Split lip. His head isn't cut and there aren't any bumps. Looks like he got his hair pulled pretty hard though. Not certain if his nose is broken." The male paramedic told them that Lassiter was very lucky— "Though it's obvious he was choked unconscious, whomever did this didn't want to kill him, detectives," he said. "But he's been worked over pretty badly. It's also lucky that we got here when we did— he could have choked to death on his own blood."

Juliet felt someone squeeze her hand; she glanced to her right to see Detective Samuelson at her side, giving her a tight but reassuring look. As soon as was polite, she turned back to Carlton.

"What about his knuckles—"

"Looks like defensive wounds. He probably put up a good fight. We haven't been able to get him to come around, despite the fact that he's breathing. There's likely no internal bleeding, but we're of course going to take him in to get checked out."

"Who would do this?" Buzz muttered. He felt sick; he looked up to Lassiter, not only as his superior but as a good man, despite the recent trouble the suspended head detective was in lately. He couldn't believe someone would beat up Lassiter this badly— he couldn't believe he was really seeing this.

"Get that ankle cuff off of him," Vick snapped suddenly, swinging out to catch everyone's eyes. "Someone get it off. Now!" They scrambled. "I don't care how you do it— just do it!"

"Is he going to be okay? I'm his partner," Juliet was saying to the paramedics. She had knelt down and had pressed her palm against his. Lassiter's eyes were shut, and he looked so vulnerable and still.

The woman patted Juliet's shoulder. "I'm sorry, hun," she murmured. "I'm sure, once he's in a doctor's care, he'll be okay. Just fine. Ed's right— it's very good we got here when we did." She guided Juliet's fingers towards Carlton's wrist. "See how strong his pulse is? He's a fighter, I'd say."

Juliet's eyes were spilling tears; she couldn't control them. She pressed a hand against her mouth and squeezed her fingers around Carlton's limp hand. His skin was clammy; she just hated this. All of this. _I'm so sorry I didn't believe you, Carlton,_ she thought fiercely, unable to take her eyes off his face.

"I need you to get a crime scene team in here," Vick was telling Samuelson. "Check for prints, DNA— whatever can help us find the person responsible for this."

"Yes, Chief," he responded quickly.

The female paramedic alerted Samuelson to the blood under Lassiter's fingernails. Samuelson shook out a cloth from his pocket, and tried to give it to Juliet to swab Lassiter's nails, but she didn't notice it. The paramedic grabbed it, carefully swabbing and handing the cloth back, dabbed with blood.

Juliet was barely aware of her colleagues helping her off the floor, stabilizing her shaking knees. She watched in slow motion as the paramedics carefully loaded and strapped Lassiter to a stretcher with wheels. Amid all the commotion, Juliet had completely forgotten that it was Shawn who had essentially brought all of them here, allowing her partner's rescue, even if it was after he'd been viciously beaten. It wasn't until Lassiter was on the stretcher, the plastic oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, that Juliet wondered about Shawn. She called his cell but it went straight to voice mail.

It had to have been about twenty minutes, maybe even a half an hour, since they'd all arrived here. _So, where the hell was Shawn?_ She scanned around, as if he'd snuck in, unnoticed, though that didn't seem plausible. She got a bad, dark feeling in her ribs, as if something was stuck there. "Shawn," she muttered aloud, still searching.

"What is it, O'Hara?" Vick asked, at her elbow.

"It's Shawn, Chief," Juliet said. "He said he would call 911 and meet us here in ten. It's been longer than ten, hasn't it?" The EMTs were rolling the stretcher down the hallway. Lassiter was a swollen, bloody mess on it. She looked after it wistfully.

Vick nodded slowly, a large knot forming in her throat. "Why don't you ride with your partner— Carlton," she corrected, sending Juliet forward with nod when she hesitated. "I''ll go to the Psych office and check up on Mr. Spencer. He— something likely sidetracked him. You know what a short attention span he has." She wasn't really trying to lighten the mood, but more trying to distract herself and Juliet from a growing fear that something was terribly wrong.

"Follow me," Vick told Hamilton and McNab. "I need to swing by the Psych office." She gave them a stern look that said she didn't want any questions right now, so they nodded and did as she asked. They were at the office in eight minutes flat. All the shades were drawn, and Shawn's bike was parked out front.

McNab tried the door, and then called out Shawn's name. "It's locked, Chief," he told Vick, and then called for Shawn again. There was no answer. He and Hamilton looked at her, awaiting instructions. Vick shuffled. The door was locked, but Spencer's bike was here. _If he'd told O'Hara he would meet them at Lassiter's place, where the hell was he?_

"Break it down," Vick instructed. She didn't want to say aloud that she suspected foul play, because she hadn't seen any signs of it as yet, but she was definitely worried. She had been on full alert since O'Hara had told her about the voice mail left on Shawn's phone. And then seeing Lassiter like that, unconscious in a pool of blood. She shuddered.

Buzz knocked against the door with his broad shoulder, and after two knocks, the door popped open. He waited for Vick to go in first; he had his hand resting on the handle of his gun out of habit. Vick went by him and pushed the door open. "Mr. Spencer?" she called into the office as she stepped in. She took in the scene in front of her and gasped. "Oh, my god." For a few moments, she could only stand there with her hand over her mouth. Vick leaned towards the door and waved Buzz in. He caught a glimpse of the office before Vick told him to radio a crime scene team. Even from where she was standing, and through the dim light, she could see splotches of blood everywhere.


	18. Chapter 17: Soon For All To See

**Chapter Seventeen: Sometime Soon For All To See, The Walls Are Slowly Breaking Down**

**____________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer: I do not own lyrics to Tori Amos' _Seaside_.

Italian Vocabulary (which I credit to wordreference dot com): _Si_ = Yes; _Le sensitivo =_ The psychic; _Bambino_ = Immature person/ child; U_n urlo di terrore_ = A scream of horror/ terror; O_rchidea_ = Orchid; _Un strillo piccolo_ = A small scream; _In buona fede_ = In good faith; _Fede incondizionata che non si basa su prove_ = Blind faith; _Zio_ = Uncle; _Fatto per il bene di tutti noi _= For the good of all of us; _Questo dessert __e __molto dolce_ = This dessert is very sweet; _Sono_ _terra vergine_ = I am virgin land; _Sto sognando tantissimo ultimamente_ = I've been dreaming a lot lately; _Azzurro_ = royal blue; _Non fara certo male_ = It won't do any harm; _Fuori_ = Get out; _Un desiderio di morte_ = A death wish; _Accidenti = _Damn it; _Buona_ = Good.

Author's Note: This chapter contains some minor Shawn whumpage.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Vick was stunned at the sight before her. She heard Buzz, who had returned, take in an audible, shaky breath before regaining his composure. She took a slow walk through the scene— crime scene, it was looking to be— scrutinizing every detail. Papers and file folders and various office supplies and toys were scattered across the floor. The cordless land line phone lay on its side on the floor, its dial tone the only sound in the office other than their footsteps. As she got closer, she realized that some blood had dried across its side, and that more blood dotted the carpet around it.

"I checked the parameters, ma'am," Officer Hamilton said, running a hand through his rust colored hair. He leaned in the doorway but didn't come inside. "There's no sign of Shawn Spencer. So far, there aren't any witnesses who might determine what happened."

Vick nodded. "McNab, open those blinds."

"Yes, ma'am," McNab said, stepping into the office.

"Hamilton, I need you to call in some additional officers for a larger search. Have them also check all his local haunts as well." _God, she despised this. _"As of this moment, however, I'm reporting Shawn Spencer a missing person." This was too much of history repeating itself— and she was shaken by it all.

Hamilton nodded. "Yes, Chief." He exited.

"Chief, there's blood on all of the blinds," McNab told her when she asked why he hadn't done as she instructed yet. He eyed the far window, whose blinds were partially open, but slanted awkwardly.

"All of them?" she asked. "All right, leave them closed." She wandered towards a gray metal stapler, lying on its side between the two desks. As she examined it, she found no blood; though it seemed there might be skin particulates on it. Another nearby object caught her eye: the smashed green plastic of a cell phone's outer shell. Vick had been bending down for a closer look, when Buzz's deep voice startled her. "Chief." She turned her head sharply in Buzz's direction. "Yes?"

"You should take a look at this, ma'am. I found it under one of the desks." She stood and strode to him, where he held what looked like another broken cell phone. He had picked it up using a cloth from his pocket so as not to disturb any possible fingerprints. The outside of the phone was smudged with red— it almost looked like finger paint— and its LCD screen was crushed. Karen looked at it in his hands as if it were an alien object, though it was somehow strangely familiar. Why were there two broken cell phones in the office? One must be Shawn's— the green one, she thought, glancing at its pieces on the floor— but could this other phone belong to Mr. Guster? No, that didn't seem possible or right. Guster was in lock up. He couldn't have left his cell here; no, he didn't. It was in a plastic bag containing his other personal effects, filed at the station until someone came to pick them up. Vick started to ask McNab whose phone it was, wondering oddly why he hadn't spoken right away, when it hit her why the phone was so familiar. Shaking out a cloth of her own from her pocket, Karen took the phone from him and eased it over. On its back, near the battery cover was a sticker that read: _Property of SBPD— C.L._

"This is Lassiter's phone," she said aloud, her voice strange to her own ears. She looked up into Buzz's serious brown eyes. "Why would Lassiter's phone be here?" Questions and theories shot across her quick mind like arrows from a bow, but Buzz voiced it before she could.

"Well, Detective O'Hara said that Shawn's voice mail caught the—" Buzz swallowed hard. "The fight. Maybe it means the crimes are related— it could be the same perp, Chief," he said solemnly, nodding at her before continuing a sweep of the room.

_The same perp. Oh, my god, _Vick thought. _Could it be? The same horrible person who attacked Lassiter had— what could he have done to Shawn?_ And if Shawn had been— but why would he be abducted? And how was Lassiter involved? Vick hated the _deja vu_ she was getting in her head— a week and a half ago, she had been standing in Lassiter's apartment, wondering similar thoughts— if Lassiter was missing, could he have been kidnapped? But then, there hadn't been any obvious signs that Lassiter fought for his life; that's why she had requested Shawn take a look. But even he couldn't _see_ that anything was off, though she recalled now that he had said he'd _sensed_ something was wrong. After all, Lassiter wasn't the type of man to just run off— the cop life was what he knew and did best.

Vick was still in shock, she knew, from seeing Lassiter. Who_ would do that? Could he have been threatened by someone . . . why didn't I know these things? _

Buzz walked around Shawn's desk, finding a Magic 8 Ball near one of its legs. The predicted fortune to whatever question may have been asked of it read, "results hazy, try again later" in the inky triangle. Buzz squatted down, and examined the papers on the floor; they didn't seem to have any significance or spell out any kind of message. It only seemed that they were scattered in haste. Or fear.

Vick set Lassiter's phone on Guster's desk and scooped up the shell of Shawn's phone off the floor, looking it over. "The battery's missing," she said, noticing that it too had small traces of red on its sides.

"It's over here, Chief," Buzz said, seeing the battery pack on the floor by the wall. As he reached for it, he caught a whiff of something chemical, strong. "Whoa," he muttered, darting his eyes back and forth as if he could make out the invisible borders of its containment. He sniffed again as Vick made it to him.

"What is it, McNab?" she asked sharply, but sounded alarmed.

"Smells like chloroform, Chief. Right here." He waved his arm to signify that the odor was strongest around the area of Shawn's desk. Karen sniffed the air and nodded grimly. "That's— exactly what it smells like. Oh, dear god." She hadn't wanted to admit it, not after— Shawn was nowhere in sight; the office was in shambles. There had been a fight; someone lost. _Holy god. _This was too much like the scene she'd just come from. She walked through a scenario with McNab. The attacker had come in, blocked the exit, taken away Shawn's phone; they fought, and Shawn was overpowered, then chloroformed. Then—

"Maybe he's not," Buzz began, getting a knot in his throat. He remembered yesterday when he'd squeezed Shawn's arm— the look of pain on his face— but Shawn had been fine. Right? "Maybe he was able to fight the attacker off, run to a safe place. He might be hiding somewhere, scared out of his head."

Vick shook her head slowly. "What if he was badly harmed?" She got an uncomfortable flash of Lassiter's face and his still, pale form lying on his apartment floor. Vick noticed blood on the far window and went towards it. Buzz followed her. If the door was locked from the inside, this must have been the way that the abductor got Shawn out of the office. Or the way Shawn had managed to escape— though that scenario was at best some kind of fantasy. Vick swallowed hard. "If what you suggest is correct— if it's the same person who—"

Buzz put a hand on her shoulder before catching himself, and dropped his hand to side with a murmured apology. She barely seemed to notice. How could Shawn have managed to escape an attack from the same man who'd cornered and beaten Lassiter, left him unconscious, perhaps for dead? Buzz was willing to be optimistic, but as they both stood by the open window, with blood on the casement and torn blinds, his resolve fell. "So he was drugged there, by his desk," Karen said, "and then either dragged or carried him to the window. He was likely unconscious by then—"

"Looks like the perp might have climbed through it first, and the reached back in for Shawn," Buzz said. He glanced out the window under its broken blinds, and noticed the window was at a right angle with a back street. "Chief," he alerted her with a jerk of his head.

She nodded. "Go."

He went to the door and threaded his way to the back street at a sprint.

Looking around the empty office, she tried to think back to the first moment before everything had began to spiral out of control. She rubbed at her forehead with knuckle, but the dull ache remained. A half an hour ago, she had been told by O'Hara that Lassiter called Mr. Spencer, pleading for help; she hadn't expected to find what she did. The last time Shawn had alerted her to trouble at Lassiter's was the day her Head Detective had fainted— and somehow, his strained wrist had become sprained. Now, a half an hour later, Lassiter was on his way to the hospital and Shawn was— missing.

She sighed with a hard scowl. The last thing she wanted to do was call up Henry Spencer and tell him it looked more than probable that his son had been kidnapped. Henry would demand knowledge, investigation, action— he would have too many questions she couldn't answer. And what about McNab's theory? She hated to admit it made sense . . . but how else could she it explain it?

Buzz returned, breathless. "Any sign?" she prompted, not waiting for him to catch his breath.

Buzz held a white cloth out to her. She stared at it; something metal in the center gleamed in the sunlight filtering in through the open window. "Muddy tire tracks— looks like a work van, from the tread, ma'am. The tracks peter out around a corner. Looks like— like the van was idling back there for a while— there's a small pool of engine fluid in a patch of mud." He took a few breaths and tried to hand her cloth again. "Chief, I found these in a patch of weeds close to the mud." Buzz pushed the cloth into her hand and opened it, which forced her to really examine what it was— a set of keys with toy key chains hanging off the rings. One of toys was a small rubber pineapple, partially covered with mud.

_Oh, dear god, were they _waiting_ for him?_ Vick had to leave the office suddenly. She stumbled towards the door, shrugging off any assistance from Buzz. She told him to keep looking around. "I'll be fine, I just need some air."

Outside, the sun was already bright and hot, but Karen felt an inexplicable chill race through her veins. Life was going on as usual— though she noticed some of her officers questioning small groups of people or individuals for their proximity to the office thirty to forty-five minutes prior and if they may have heard or witnessed any kind of a struggle. She brushed a hand across her face and realized she was still holding the set of keys McNab had found. _Shawn's keys._ Could he have dropped them as a clue? No— he was likely unconscious by then, they had decided. Then— they must have fall out of his pocket when he was taken. She considered the figure of a man carrying Shawn slung across his shoulder around the corner. Vick took a walk to where the window they determined was used as an exit, and glanced towards the back street. The area was blind— even standing here, she had to crane her neck to get a good look at the street. It would have been easy to carry an unconscious person away without being noticed.

With a huge knot in her stomach, she got out her cell and called O'Hara's new partner.

"Detective Samuelson," he answered on the first ring.

"Samuelson, it's Chief Vick. I'm still at the Psych office." She hesitated, looking around as if hoping Shawn would appear at any moment with some kind of food in his hands.

"Chief?"

"The office is a mess," she told him. "Mr. Spencer isn't here."

"What?"

"He's— missing. We haven't been able to locate him. It looks like—" Her lips formed the word but she couldn't say it.

"Abduction?" Samuelson supplied. "Christ."

She sighed. "I hate to admit it, but yes. It's more than probable. There's blood all around the office. Is the team still there?"

"Yes— I authorized them for a thorough sweep, ma'am." He paused. "They found something strange under the kitchen sink."

"Good," she said, nodding, even though he couldn't see her. "Wait, strange?" When he started to tell her, she closed her eyes but found she couldn't focus. "Tell me later. I'm having another team sent here— McNab should have already called it in."

"Can't hurt," Samuelson mumbled. "I also relayed a crime scene photographer for Lassiter— for the report, ma'am."

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about, but then she said, "Good thinking. Detective—" She stopped, not sure why she needed to ask this question when she already had the physical proof just inside the door— but she did ask. "Did anyone come across Lassiter's cell phone?" She heard him talking to someone, and then he answered, "No, Chief. It wasn't found."

"Good god," she mumbled, jerking her head towards the office.

"I'm sorry?" Samuelson asked, confused.

"Never— never mind. I'll fill you and O'Hara in later. I have to go now; Henry Spencer needs to be notified."

"Chief, what about O'Hara? Should I tell her that Spencer is—"

"No," Karen sighed. "Leave O'Hara to me. I'll fill her in when I get to the hospital; she's got enough on her plate right now."

_* * *_

Eight forty-five came and went. Then nine. Though his son had seemed very serious last night, Henry really hadn't believed Shawn could make it anywhere on time. He sighed, and took another sip of his coffee, dialing through the AM radio stations on the portable he took fishing sometimes. He settled on the local news channel, listening for weather updates. He turned up the volume when he heard one of the newscasters' stories already in progress.

_". . . En route to Santa Barbara General. . . Caucasian male, approximately mid to late thirties . . . identified as Carlton Lassiter, was found beaten in his apartment early this morning, the apparent victim of a home invasion . . . In case you listeners don't remember correctly, Lassiter is the detective with the Santa Barbara Police Department accused of murdering a local man . . . ."_

Henry froze, turning the words over in his head. _Carlton Lassiter . . . beaten . . . apparent victim of a home invasion. . . ._ He got up, and just stood in the middle of the kitchen. The radio was still on, but he couldn't hear it. Instead, he heard Shawn from a few days ago saying, _"I can't tell you all the details, okay, but the case Gus and I were working on involves Lassiter. He was framed for murder, and I sort of volunteered Psych to help him. He was— freaked out. He's in over his head." _

The phone's ringing jarred him out of his thoughts. Henry moistened his lips and picked it up, ready to hear some excuse from Shawn why he was late. "Hello?" he mumbled.

"Mr. Spencer— it's Chief Vick."

Henry picked up her flat, serious tone instantly. "What's the matter?" His thoughts jumped around; she couldn't possibly be calling him about Lassiter. _No_. Henry's knees felt weak. "Karen?" he edged to the silence.

She sighed sharply. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Shawn is missing."

"Missing? Shawn?" Henry heard himself blurt out. "Missing, how? Like he ran away?"

"No, Henry," Karen said tightly. "From the looks of his office— kidnapped." The word was like a stone that hit his knees, taking him out. "Henry?" she called into the phone worriedly.

Henry grabbed the phone which had slid from his grasp when he collapsed. He pressed the receiver to his ear, trying to get his lungs to take in air. "I'm— here," he told her shakily.

"Are you all right? Do you want me to send—"

"No," Henry barked, climbing back to his feet for her benefit, though it was silly because she couldn't see him. "Let me come to you."

"I don't think—"

Henry cursed. "I'm not going to touch a thing. He's my son, Karen."

She mumbled some kind of agreement. "We're at the Psych office. I'll be waiting."

_* * *_

Juliet tensely waited outside Lassiter's room while he was examined, bandaged, and hooked up to painkillers. She ignored the set of three plastic chairs and instead pressed her back against a wall, on alert, the whole frame of her muscles knotted. The snippets of a song softly drifted down from a sound system above her head, and she let herself listen to a few bars as way of a distraction.

#

_". . . Innocence targeted_

_Whose god is this? _

_Wish that she had one more day_

_#_

_"There at the seaside, fifth of December_

_We chased the tide _

_as the treasures were gathered_

_I had to laugh _

_as she gave sand a bath . . ."_

_#_

She stopped listening to it as her apprehension for Carlton swelled again. He hadn't woken or stirred at all on the ride here. She hadn't wanted to leave her partner alone for a second— she dully registered that Carlton was actually not her partner right now, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he had been brutally attacked— and she hadn't the slightest clue why. Who would break in? How did this person know that Lassiter was alone?

What was taking them so long in there? She tried to listen to the song again, but couldn't focus. Her thoughts kept circling back. The paramedics had told her that whomever attacked Lassiter knew restraint— how to hurt just so, how not to kill— though it was more than probable that the person could have easily beaten him to death. Juliet wrapped her arms around her chest tightly, trying to steady her breathing. She suddenly felt like throwing up, but wasn't about to run to the ladies' room until she heard from a doctor or nurse about Carlton. Juliet had seen that front window, that front door; she had overheard her colleagues' comments on how the window looked like it had been hit repeatedly by someone's fist— hands _much_ larger than Lassiter's.

Concern about Shawn edged in. It didn't make any sense to her why he would call, panicked as he was, and then fail to show up. _Oh, god, Shawn,_ she thought, chewing her lip. _Please be all right._ She wouldn't allow herself to entertain any negative thoughts about Shawn being in a similar condition; _no, no._ She shook her head furiously.

"Detective O'Hara?" a nurse asked.

"Yes?" She pushed off the wall anxiously, waiting for the nurse to speak. She tried to follow what the woman was saying, but didn't register anything until, "You can see him now."

Juliet pushed open the door and after turning a corner that revealed his bed, stopped. Carlton's skin was as pale as it had been earlierÑ and he lay there, deathly still, his eyes closed. Though his wounds had been dressed and bandaged, she was stunned to see how horrible he still looked. She jumped a little when the nurse touched her shoulder. "We've got him on a morphine drip, honey," the woman told her. "He's not feeling any pain."

"Thank— thank you." Her eyes, dried of tears since the ambulance ride, refilled completely. She wanted to ask if he was going to be okay, but she couldn't get the words to come out. She felt the nurse give her shoulder a soft squeeze, then the door closed. As if in slow motion, Juliet went towards the bed. Carlton wore a hospital gown— she thought absently of the bloody white shirt she had seen cut off of him; the bed sheets had been pulled up under his armpits, his arms rested above the covers. His left arm was loosely wrapped; for his right, they'd removed the brace and bound the injured wrist in a sling against his chest. The cut across his cheek, the gash above his eyebrow and the red bruise under his right eye had each been covered with a clean white pad of gauze taped to his ashy skin. They'd done nothing to his left eye, which had swollen to a deep purple quickly on its way to an even uglier shade of black, and his nose was equally swollen, but not broken, it seemed. Vaguely, she registered a couple of plastic bags filled with ice on his bedside table and recalled the nurse had told her in the hallway that the ice and the painkillers were the only remedies to care for those two injuries. It was only the skin around the left eye that was injured, not the actual eye; she remembered hearing the word "surgery" with a shudder, but realized that the nurse had said that surgery wouldn't be needed.

Now that the blood had been cleaned from his mouth, Juliet could clearly see a huge split in Lassiter's bottom lip— it had been given two stitches, though the split seemed to strain the tiny threads. She realized she was standing there with a hand against her mouth, tears speeding down her face uncontrollably again. "Oh, god. Carlton," she choked out, sinking into a metal chair next to his bed. Juliet wiped at her face with the back of her hands. She leaned over the rail and pushed her arm between it so she could take his hand. She felt his pulse first, as the female paramedic had shown her back in the apartment. _Still strong,_ she thought, with the faintest glimmer of hope that Carlton was going to come out of this— just fine. Just fine. That's what the red haired woman had told her. Juliet noticed that his knuckles had been wrapped with long strips of white gauze; hurt when he'd fought back against— anger stabbed at her. She squeezed Carlton's limp hand, pressing her palm against his for a moment. She wished he could squeeze back, give her any sign.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, holding his hand and waiting as the seconds and silence marched along, but someone entering the room startled her.

"Detective O'Hara?" a young male voice asked. She turned to see that the visitor was a young man in his mid-twenties with square black framed glasses. He was holding a camera, and held out his credentials for her. "I'm Lenny. I'm the SBPD crime scene tech/ photographer for Lassiter's apartment," he told her.

"Did the Chief send you?" Juliet asked, standing up.

"Detective Samuelson," Lenny corrected, and she nodded. She stood back while the tech took various pictures of Lassiter's face and the rest of the injuries. He set the camera down and pulled a pad of paper from his pocket and a pen and asked her for a list of Lassiter's injuries. "Any internal bleeding?" Lenny asked.

"Uh—" She heard the nurse's words in the hallway, far, far away. "No. Only external. Oh, he does have bruised ribs, and uh, a cut on his chest and cuts on his back."

Lenny wrote these down and then pocketed the pad and pen. "Sorry; Sameulson told me to be thorough," he apologized, and she realized from his gesturing that he needed pictures of Lassiter's ribs.

"All right," she told him, "but I'm not moving him otherwise."

"I can get a description of the severity of the cuts on his back from his doctor," he told her. She nodded, feeling her cheeks flush as she gently pushed the bed sheets down to Lassiter's navel, and then eased his hospital gown up to his armpits— careful not to disturb the sling— to reveal the long angry red slash and the bruises. The cut had been stitched up in places, bandaged in others. She heard the nurse's words again: "It's pretty much superficial, but in a few places slightly deeper; we didn't want to risk infection." Juliet's gasp filled the room as her eyes alighted on Lassiter's bruised ribs; Lenny eased her backwards so he could snap the pictures, though she heard him mumble, "Holy god." The bruises, on both sides of his torso, which she hadn't noticed as much at the apartment, were a dark blue-black— even darker than the bruise on his left eye, his nose.

"Got it," Lenny said. "Do you know what this cut here's from?"

Juliet looked over his shoulder; Lenny was pointing a brown scabbed over cut just above his navel. She swallowed. "That's— old. From before—"

"So, not new," Lenny said with a nod. He stepped back and Juliet quickly fixed the gown and arranged the sheets as they'd been. "What's his doctor's name?"

"Um," Juliet muttered. She had entirely blanked, not recalling if the nurse had told her or not. "I—"

"That's all right, Detective," Lenny said with tight smile. "I'll just ask outside." He left. Juliet frowned after him; she couldn't see any reason to smile at this moment. She took her seat again, placing her hand around Lassiter's.

_* * *_

Henry fumbled with door handle, and walked into Lassiter's hospital room in a daze. He stopped, just as Juliet had, though without the benefit of having seen Lassiter's injuries beforehand. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled. Juliet turned her head slowly; he saw that her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks puffy. She was holding Lassiter's hand tightly.

"Mr. Spencer," she said, seeming to startle awake. She started to stand, but sank back down, her eyes narrowing. "What are you doing here?" Something flashed across her face, and she bolted to her feet. "Is it Shawn? Is something—"

Henry ran a hand over his mouth. "Karen wants to tell you. She's outside." Juliet glanced at Lassiter, reluctant to leave. "I'll be here," he told her. "I'll watch him until you get back." She nodded, barely tearing her eyes from Carlton, but managing to get out the door.

Henry looked Lassiter over slowly and sank shakily into the chair Juliet had vacated. Twenty seconds later, Henry heard Juliet's cry from outside. He pressed his shoulders against the hard metal chair and tried to think over everything that Karen had said when he arrived at Shawn's office.

He'd only caught a glimpse of the office before McNab had been ordered to keep Henry from the crime scene, but a glimpse was much more than he wanted to see. Vick counted off the reasons on her fingers of why it appeared Shawn had been abducted. When they'd arrived, they'd found the door locked from the inside and all the blinds drawn. The office was a mess, signs of a struggle apparent. Blood had been found in small areas all over the office, including on the land line, which was off its cradle. Shawn's bike had been parked outside; however, his helmet was inside. Shawn's keys found in the weeds behind the office— where it appeared a van had been parked, waiting. And then there was the business of the two smashed cell phones. Henry had about lost it when he heard the word chloroform. But the most crucial component had not been found— Shawn.

Staring at Lassiter, Henry had to press his whole hand against his mouth. "It's not an official determination," Vick told him, "but it has been suggested that the perp who attacked Lassiter went after Shawn." Henry made her explain that in detail, and then tried to work though the logic of the voice mail as a sole motive for a kidnapping. It didn't add up. Henry told her he'd heard it over the radio on a local news station about Lassiter about thirty seconds before she called. Vick swore; she said she had no idea who would have the balls to leak that to the press, but she was going to— Henry stopped her, knowing where she was going with that train of thought.

"The same guy who did this . . . has my son?" Henry whispered. He reached out and grabbed Lassiter's left wrist, turning it carefully. "Defensive wounds," he muttered, looking over the bandages. He kept hoping that Shawn had been able to get away, that he'd run and was hiding out until he thought it was safe enough to let someone know he was okay. Even if he had a couple of ugly bruises— if he was okay, then— But so far, all they'd found were those keys, and that smashed cell phone, which were poor substitutes for Shawn.

Vick had already reported him as a missing person; she had started an investigation into his disappearance too. Vick had tried to get Henry to go home; just in case there was a ransom call, but Henry felt he needed to go to the hospital first. Besides, he had his cell phone; Shawn had insisted he get one and had driven him crazy until he finally signed up with the most simple phone plan possible. Now, it seemed so mundane to have argued over cell phones, calling plans and all their crazy optional features. He had no idea where Shawn was, if he'd been hurt, if he was safe or in danger. Henry stared intently at Lassiter, holding his breath suddenly. The younger man was so still Henry wanted to be assured he was breathing, so he listened for a few seconds. He leaned in. _Yes_. It was very faint, but Lassiter was managing to breathe on his own. _You better hang in there,_ Henry thought, willing Lassiter to wake up soon. _I think you may be the only one who can tell me where Shawn is. And maybe, how to get him back. _

_* * *_

Shawn awoke to white darkness. For a few seconds, he didn't remember a thing; his head slammed. He groaned; a few shivers rocked his body; he felt cold air on his bare arms, then the pounding in his skull beat out the cold. Shawn thought he might be sick; but there was already something against his tongue; he swallowed the bile dryly. He tried to blink away the dark, but it remained, fixed in place, just like the rough thing that was in his mouth, cutting into his cheeks. Shawn tried his limbs, but nothing complied. He tried again, then again. The only appendages that moved were his fingers, though they felt terribly stiff. _Why am I . . . immobilized?_ Shawn wondered dimly. _How did I get like this?_ Pain surge up his stiff neck; why did it feel like he'd been bashed in the face with a rock? Pain intensified under his right eye; whatever had been done there ached right down to his jaw. Though, he became aware of it slowly, that could be because of the gag.

The attack rolled back slowly; he remembered the punch, the angry tugs of his hair, the fear that had nearly struck him dumb. The man's malicious face leering over his . . . that stupid trick with the cell phones to distract Shawn off the bat. _Lassie. Oh, god._ Shawn had no idea what the brute could have done to Lassiter; well, he wasn't going to find out if he stuck around here. _I have to figure out where I am so I can get gone far from here,_ he thought, wincing when his knotted muscles protested even the slightest movement. _How long have I been here?_ he wondered, feeling scared. _How long have I been sleeping? _He moaned when his head throbbed again, taking in fast shallow breaths through his nose that left him feeling more lightheaded than before. Shawn wondered if giving his head a good shake would clear anything; but before he could try it, he got dizzy. Shawn let his head drop to his chest, though after a few seconds he could feel the strain in his neck, he left it there until the ache passed. His stomach growled, then churned uncomfortably.

_"You no scream, like last time?" the man's voice sneered in his head. _Okay, so maybe Lassiter and his father and Gus hadn't been so off base when they'd tried to convince him that his little scrape— and its hand print souvenir— was a grim and scary incident. Hell, it was scary— Shawn admitted that right away. They'd all assumed nearly immediately that it was a kidnapping attempt, but since Shawn was the one who'd been the one nearly taken— he took it seriously in his own way. He ignored that he had been in any real danger. _I did take it seriously,_ Shawn told himself. He'd convinced himself that he had to work even harder to clear Lassiter's name— the sooner that was done, the sooner the problems would vanish. _What if _you_ were the problem that vanished?_ an annoying voice asked him. He cursed it. _Go away. You're not helping._

He felt remorseful— he had broken his promise to Gus; he had promised his best friend he was going to be more careful. But then Gus hadn't mentioned anything about what to do should the boogeyman break into the Psych office and block the only exit with the sole intention of abducting Shawn.

He tried to move his legs; his upper legs and knees obeyed but his ankles were lashed to something hard; he strained them against the ropes but there wasn't any give. Something as equally square and hard pressed against his back, separating it from his bound arms— _chair, maybe,_ Shawn thought. His arms still wouldn't move; and he felt as if this chair and his body had been fused together. Shawn tried to rock the chair in either direction, but it was too heavy and solid, almost as if it, too, were fused to the floor.

"You're not going anywhere."

Shawn jumped, more figuratively than literally. The man who had spoken used a baneful, calculated snappish tone. Shawn's heart raced, then thudded bleakly in his ears. For a few seconds, he had trouble breathing. He tried to turn his head towards the voice; how close was this guy to him? Fear settled in his throat and he waited, holding his breath, for the man to speak again.

"So this is _le sensitivo_?" another male voice asked, not sounding impressed. Shawn jerked his head in that direction, and heard a low mocking, "_Bambino_."

"He seems frightened." Shawn froze, turning his head in the direction of the voice, which was female— taunting and amused. "Marte— _un urlo di terrore_?"

A man laughed gruffly. "No, _orchidea_. _Un strillo piccolo_."

The woman— Donia— giggled musically. "Iah wish I haduh been there." She giggled again.

Shawn's head was spinning trying to follow the strange mix of English and Italian coming out of the mouths of his captors— of which he had the uncanny sensation they were circling his chair, giving his bound self the once over. He knew it was useless, but he strained against the physical restraints even though he heard two of the voices' malicious laughs at his attempted progress. A hand slapping him across the mouth stopped him. Shawn heard a squeak pop out of his throat; some of the sound merged with the air around his head; how strange it seemed to his own ears.

"I said, you are not going anywhere," a man's voice boomed less than an inch from his face. Shawn sucked in more fast breaths through his nose; he felt his skin start to pulsate unpleasantly milliseconds before every inch of bare skin broke out in goosebumps. "This is the price you pay," the man continued, his hot breath against Shawn's cheek. Shawn flinched. _Dude, personal space,_ he thought with a shudder. The man sighed. "He needs to pay— but first, you will. You were, how you say, _in buona fede_, Mr. Spencer. You had, ah, _fede incondizionata che non si basa su prove_." He spat on the ground.

_Oh, my god. He knows my name._ The thought shot across Shawn's mind like a bullet.

"What it is you call it— you _believed_ him." The word "believed" twisted sharply in the man's mouth. Shawn shuddered again; the man could only be talking about Lassiter now. He was having a hard time grasping he was a hostage to the same people who had abducted and tormented Lassiter— _Oh. My. God,_ Shawn thought suddenly, blinking his eyes furiously under the blindfold. _They knew that— they knew that we were going to tell Vick what Lassiter remembered. _

Shawn chewed on the cloth. _One of these voices belonged to Max Sweets' killer— Cybil,_ Shawn recalled the name. In fact, because of their research, both he and Lassiter knew all of their names . . . . Shawn flashed back to the stickiness the brute had gotten on his fingers when he'd snatched away Shawn's cell phone. _Lassie's blood, _Shawn thought, horrified then and now. He recalled the brute's bored _"He'll live,"_ when Shawn asked what he had done— but he'd already known, as soon as he heard the voice mail— a vicious fight with only one victor. Thinking it over now, Shawn felt the relief he'd had the sense to alert Juliet— and let her hear the voice mail— even if it meant— _this_. He tried to move his wrists again but they still wouldn't budge. This didn't mean he was any less scared though.

Somewhere between being knocked unconscious by the man in his office and the trip here— wherever here was— he'd been blindfolded; he hated not being able to see anything, especially since he relied on his vision as the most prominent sense to solve crimes. How was he going to solve his own abduction if he couldn't see or move, if he couldn't scream— if no one knew where he was? _Definitely still scared,_ he thought numbly.

"You believed him," the man snarled right in Shawn's ear, startling him out of his thoughts. "How _dare_ you." Shawn felt his own breath thin . . . this man was seriously scary. His voice was like a saw cutting right through Shawn's bones. He could be . . . Notte, then. Shawn understood immediately why Lassiter found him terrifying— and Shawn couldn't even see the man's face. A hand closed around Shawn's throat, and again Shawn heard himself squeak. "If it weren't for _you_, Mr. Spencer"— Shawn's eyes bulged under the cloth and he started panting fast— "we would already have what we seek."

"What?" Shawn muttered under the cloth, though it sounded like a pathetic moan. His throat was released with a malicious shove.

Notte sighed loudly. "The pain he truly deserves is more than I can administer— though I do my best."

"_Zio_, _fatto per il bene di tutti noi_," one of the male voices stated. Shawn couldn't tell which one, though he knew it was not Notte.

"_Si_, if not for you"— Notte punctuated the word "you" with another opened palm slap to Shawn's mouth. This time, Shawn felt something wet trickle down from the corner of this mouth; he groaned; his eyes stung. "—we would haveh had Carlton Lassiter's _ruin_." Shawn felt every muscle in his body tighten. "Now, because of your interference, history cannot repeat itself."

Shawn struggled for even the slightest give on his restraints. He couldn't just sit here and listen to this— besides, he didn't want to hear any of it. He churned over Notte's words, trying to make sense of them. "_History cannot repeat itself."_ _What did that mean?_

"Now," Notte continued, pacing near Shawn's chair, "I must do the job myself." A chill raced through Shawn. _No, no, god, no. _He started to shake. Notte's words were angry but not all together displeased— he seemed amused at this turn of events. Shawn flinched when he a rough hand rested against his cheek. He started to turn his head but fingernails dug into his skin. He froze, huffing his distaste. "And he will have you to thank, Mr. Spencer." Shawn's lips parted with shock. "When I kill him, I will tell him so."

"No!" Shawn yelled through the gag. "No! Leave him alone!" He struggled fiercely, his anger, horror, and guilt making his head swim. _No. Lassie . . . What— what have I done? _His eyes stung more furiously. Notte barked a laugh, releasing Shawn's cheek.

"Oh, he is so funny," Donia said brightly. She clapped her hands together. "He thinks he will get free." One of the men laughed along with her.

Shawn opened his mouth and screamed. He knew the sound wasn't going to go far, but he didn't know what else to do.

_* * *_

Juliet stared forlornly at the plastic evidence bag containing Shawn's dirty keys. The only reason she had even been able to leave the hospital was because of what Vick told her— the reason Shawn hadn't shown up was because he was missing— presumed kidnapped. It was as hard for her to wrap her mind around as the abuse Lassiter had suffered at the hands of some unknown— the same unknown, it seemed, who hadn't gotten enough kicks and had to go for one more score. Rumors were flying around the precinct; a peculiar charge had taken over the atmosphere the moment the news had come in of Lassiter's attack. The prior air had been just as strange— and strained— ever since Lassiter had been arrested for murder. But this— anger and a sense for vengeance rolled off of everyone; what had happened to Carlton was not done. Cops were not attacked this way— suspended or not. He was their Head Detective— innocent, until proven by a court of his guilt in this murder. Juliet could see it in everyone's eyes— they wanted blood. She wanted it too; few of them had even seen Lassiter— that was, until the crime scene tech's photographs were developed. She heard whispers that because Vick had demanded the report of Lassiter's apartment be on her desk the next morning, the tech had rushed and had them developed by that evening.

Juliet didn't know if Vick herself had intently leaked them, or if had been Buzz or March or Hamilton or one of the other young officers. She had seen every single one, including the close ups of Lassiter's bruised ribs, being thumbed through as she passed the offices and break rooms. Vick was pissed, at first; it seemed something had changed in her since they had walked into that scene at Lassiter's. She didn't demand a confession or threaten to suspend anyone who may be responsible for the leak, though she did say she would fire anyone she caught talking to the media. As long as the pictures were contained within the station; she would let it go. Lassiter, if he were awake, would have been horrified to know that all his colleagues had seen him in such a vulnerable state. It seemed Vick knew all the moods of her officers and detectives— and she also knew that this was not the way a cop should be treated. Juliet pitied any suspect who wandered in to confess to some minor infraction— she could easily picture many of her colleagues exercising "shoot first, ask questions later."

She sighed; the keys felt so heavy in her hand. She knew it wasn't the physical that was weighing her down, but the fear of unknowing and worry for what kind of condition Shawn could be in that was eating away at her insides. She knew it was irrational to blame herself for what happened, but she couldn't help fretting over it. Though, as many times as she went over it in head, she still couldn't see a scenario where she could pick up that Shawn was in any danger.

_* * *_

Notte punished Shawn for his cries by having Marte and Cybil move the chair he was tied to into a small windowless room. Though Shawn thought that being as far away from them as possible was a gift. He had only heard this plan conspired in partial Italian and partial English before it was executed, but once the jarring of the solid wooden chair dropped against a concrete floor wore off, Shawn started to appreciate the silence. He was still shaking violently from the words Notte had said to him regarding Lassiter's eventual fate; he knew he had to get the hell out of here so he could warn Lassie. But— how?

Shawn's arms ached. He strained a shoulder and heard a pop, but relief was short. His roped wrists burned, the cords cutting roughly into his skin. He shifted, trying to move them; still nothing. Whomever had tied him up knew how to tie their knots— the big scary brute, he recalled. He made a sound that resembled both sarcasm and despair. The gag was really hurting his face. His jaw was stiff, the corners of his mouth cut up, he was sure. He worked his teeth around it but it held firmly in place. It had also absorbed any moisture in his mouth; and he had been wearing it since they brought him here. His dry mouth ached for water, even just a mouthful, but so far, there hadn't been any effort made to hydrate him. They seemed much more interested in taunting him. What about Lassie? Had they held him without food or water too? But then, they'd let him go— though they'd drugged him again first. Shawn shivered. Despite the blindfold, Shawn got a tight, nauseated feeling that they weren't planning on letting him go. His mind relived his kidnapping involuntarily. He'd been so scared. He had thought the brute could have just murdered Lassiter and was there to finish him off too. _"I think the detective called you, and I was right." _

Shawn shook his head to dispel the memory. _God . . . was this similar to what Lassiter had been seeing— violent imagery he either blocked out to protect himself or had drugged away— images that would return with cruel and unrelenting force?_ Of course, Shawn reflected, what Lassiter saw was much worse— it was no wonder the way they affected him. Shawn was starting to realize that Lassiter was much stronger than he'd known— than maybe even the detective knew himself. For Shawn, it had only been a few hours . . . maybe longer. Maybe a whole day. It was hard to tell; his head and body ached, and mentally and emotionally, he was exhausted— dead tired, really. So, maybe one day, maybe less. But for Lassiter— he'd vanished without a trace nearly two weeks ago, and once returned, he'd had to deal with everything from violent memories, some long dormant, to disjointed dreams filled with loud disharmonious noises and gushing blood, so much darkness— and then on top of all of that, no one believed a word he said. To them, he'd lost his mind— and with it, all his morals and judgments. _They really did a number on his life,_ Shawn thought angrily. He remembered Notte's words about wanting Lassiter's ruin. And they almost had it— they still could. Neither Shawn nor Lassiter could talk to the police now. _Well, _Shawn hoped, _Lassiter still could—_ But other than knowing about the fight, he had no idea of Lassiter's shape. If his abductors had talked about it, it must have been when Shawn was still unconscious. _Goddammit. Lassie, please be okay. And don't be scared. Tell Vick everything. _

The air around him suddenly permeated with vanilla cologne. Shawn felt someone tugging the blindfold off. He was scared and surprised, blinking in the slanted bright light flooding the small room— which, he saw, came from a bare 100 watt fluorescent bulb above his head. "Ah, isn't that better, now?" She smiled, not showing her teeth. Shawn stared at her; he remembered her from their various missed encounters— her tight smile telling someone, _"He knows, they both know."_ Donia. _Was she the reason they'd both been attacked?_ _How had she known, anyway? _The more Shawn thought about it, the more the bug theory seemed like paranoia. It was understandable why Lassiter would consider this an acceptable possibly, but Shawn felt like he should know better.

She bent over and nuzzled his temple; Shawn jerked his head. Donia laughed, a tinkling. "What, am I not, how you say, pleasant?" She bent for another kiss, clearly amused. Because of Shawn's movements, she missed his head and pressed her lips to his cheek instead. He stared at her with hard eyes that spoke volumes.

She wasn't put off by it, though. She climbed onto his lap. Shawn shook his head and shoulders, trying to wiggle his legs enough to make her fall off. But his ankles were bound to the legs of the chair; his face flushed a deep red. "Oh," she murmured, and licked his cheek, near the bruise he'd been given trying to fight Marte. "_Questo dessert __e __molto dolce_." He frowned with disgust. "I just like to play. I can never tell any boys my real name." She laid her hands on his chest, but made no attempt to unbutton his shirt. Donia rested her head on Shawn's shoulder. "So nice," she murmured. "Warm." She sniffed; though Shawn seriously wondered if she was unbalanced. He couldn't imagine that he had a pleasant odor about him now. He was dirty, sweaty, and the fear must be coming off of him in waves, like energy. _Maybe that's what she likes,_ Shawn thought suddenly, tensing away from her. _Fear._

"_Sono_ _terra vergine_, you know," she confided to him, pulling back so she could look in his eyes. "Pooh, I wish we could speak to each other. But I cannot." She held her dark eyes on him longer than was comfortable; he held her gaze though he wanted nothing more than to turn away. She pushed her long white fingers into his hair, careful not to rake over the patch of dried blood.

Shawn tried to shake her off; she only laughed, a much darker sound. "Get off me," Shawn demanded, though the cloth muffled any actual discernible words.

"You know," Donia began, ignoring Shawn's protests completely, "I wanted to keep him. Lass-eet-tere." She spoke his name slowly, enunciating each syllable as if it were a difficult word to say aloud. She smiled up at him, turning her face innocently. "Not that you are not, oh, so sweet." She sighed. "_Sto sognando tantissimo ultimamente_. Ah, I miss him so. Such drown-in-me eyes, oh-so _azzurro_." She spoke in a dreamy tone, as if Lassiter were an old romance rather than a kidnap victim she tormented.

Notte entered the small room; Shawn glanced up and saw all of Lassiter's descriptions of the man come to life— _Jesus. He _was_ a scary son of a bitch._ Shawn felt instant empathy for Lassiter having to remember this man again and again; he felt uncomfortable, especially now that he and Notte seemed to realize at the same moment that Shawn was no longer blindfolded.

"Donia," Notte scolded with a scowl.

Gracefully, she removed herself from Shawn's lap. "_Non fara certo male_," she mumbled. She stared up into Notte's hard brown eyes. "I thought— you say—"

_"__Fuori!_" Notte shrieked. Shawn swallowed hard and stole at glance at the girl from the corner of his eye. She didn't seem the least bit cowed, but did wear a matching scowl.

"Fine!" Donia shrieked back. She rushed past Notte, who caught her wrist. They exchanged an angry look, but she jerked her arm free with a sneer. _"Un desiderio di morte_," she muttered nastily as she walked away.

"Donia!" Notte yelled over his shoulder, but the girl didn't come back. Shawn couldn't believe that he actually wanted her to come back— he just really didn't want to be left alone with Notte. _"Accidenti!_" Shawn watched him with wide eyes. He wished he could just squeeze his eyes closed and pretend he hadn't seen any of them— but he'd already seen both Donia and his attacker— Martey— so why blindfold him anyway? Maybe . . . they hadn't wanted him to get a good look at the place where they were holding him. Well, there was still time. And then the only one he wouldn't have seen was Cybil— the murderer. Shawn closed his eyes and held them shut until he felt Notte's breath on his face. Shawn yipped, pressing his back against the chair as hard as he could so he could gain half of an inch of personal space.

Notte was staring intently at him. After a few uncomfortable moments, Notte reached out and patted Shawn's cheek. "No harm," he mumbled. Shawn's eyes darted around; _what the hell did that mean? _Notte sighed. "Psychic or not, I suppose she is right. It does not matter."

Shawn wasn't following at all. They knew he was a psychic— or rather, they thought he was a psychic— did they think if he couldn't use his vision he couldn't use his "visions"? He shook his head. _Stop it,_ he told himself. _You can't let yourself go all crazy._

"Your friend made such a mistake," Notte muttered, pacing in front of Shawn's chair. For a second, Shawn thought he was talking about Lassiter. "He should haveh burned those documents— but he was stupid enough to make copies."

The blood iced in Shawn's veins. _Gus. Notte was talking about Gus._ Notte reached out and squeezed the bruise on Shawn's left arm. Shawn winced hard but managed to not cry out. Notte sneered at him, then raked his short fingernails across the bruise. Wetness surged to Shawn's eyes; he blinked furiously again to keep it from spilling. "Still fresh, then? _Buona_. He was so lucky that we have perfected the art of the name change—" Notte flicked his eyes to Shawn's. "But I see you do not care so much about this." He shook his head as Shawn tried to pick up the cryptic way Notte spoke. "Now, we haveh searched— in his place, his office, your office, your place, and we cannot find those extras. Of course, our Mr. Lassiter does not haveh them— we haveh our eyes and ears on him— we can come and go as we please, _si_? Your friend must haveh given them to you, Mr. Spencer— and you must haveh given them to—"

Shawn's eyes widened with new fear. _The copies. The only copies that had been made were the test results on Lassiter's glass. The results that said Lassiter had been drugged with Rohypnol._ _When had all these places been searched? Since his abduction? Before that? And Lassiter's place— "we can come and go as we please."_ Shawn despised that Notte had wormed his way into Lassiter's life— despite what kind of hell he was going to face while he was here, he felt proud of himself for trying to help Lassie— though it might be that particular help that may lead to him getting killed. _Oh, god._ He felt the shaking start all over again.

"—To someone whom you could trust," Notte continued. "Your friend— he is in prison, and we haveh determined he does not hide them. Not your pretty blonde girlfriend— she is police." Notte continued to list the others on the Santa Barbara police force that Shawn had any kind of work relationship to, but stated that each couldn't be the one he trusted because they were all police.

Shawn wrinkled his nose, feeling a strange blush. _Notte thought that Juliet was his— wait a second. When had he even seen them together?_ Shawn felt sick; maybe he should have taken that black and white photograph a little more seriously too. Though this whole time, he'd thought that Lassiter was the one with stalker problems— but ever since he'd gotten involved, little things had worked to unnerve. Then, bigger things. Gus. But still, he stayed. What could he say? He felt responsible; maybe if his powers of observation had been working better that day Vick asked him and Gus to check Lassiter's apartment, maybe— but Shawn knew now that the kidnappers had done a near perfect clean up job. The moved table was only small beans— the real problem was that they had left that glass behind, and hadn't even considered it until the results of its test returned. _But, how had they known? _The comment about having eyes and ears everywhere made Shawn queasy. It sounded like an elaborate trick— but because he was scared, he wasn't so sure if it could be true or not. That's exactly what they'd done to Lassie— but first they'd pumped him with drugs. Shawn figured once his fear passed, he could think things out clearly. But for Lassie— the fear never dissipated. Shawn moved against the ropes. _They couldn't get away with this— he couldn't let them. He couldn't. _

"This leaves then only one person," Notte told Shawn with a dangerous tone. "Your father."


	19. Chapter 18: Saves You From Your Fear

**Chapter Eighteen: I Keep Imagining That I Will Just Disappear, This One Thought Saves Me From My Fear Of Being Here**

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All usual disclaimers apply. I also don't own Jell-O.

Italian Vocabulary (which I credit to wordreference dot com): _Si_ = Yes; _Le sensitivo _= The psychic; _Allora_ _morte_ = Then death; _Una morte dolorosa_ = A painful death

Spanish Vocabulary: _La Estrella Negra_ = The Black Star

Author's Note: Thank you to all my reviewers! You are all so awesome! :) Thanks for reading!

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Shawn stared up at Notte's leathery face, taking a dry gulp. _Dad. I'm sorry. _His hazel eyes swam with anger and helplessness.

"I am right, I know it," Notte said. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "We should call him, _si_? I am sure he is worried about you— not knowing where his baby boy is, his only son, for just past a day?"

Shawn glared at Notte, then jerked his face away. He wasn't about to tell Notte his father's number even if Notte took off the gag. He didn't. Shawn heard him punching numbers into the keypad. "Ah, don't look so surprised, Mr. Spencer," Notte said with wolfish grin. "Marte found it in your phone before he destroyed it— he said he thought it would be useful."

Shawn scowled. He really hated that Martey guy.

Notte pressed the phone to his ear; his father's phone must be ringing. Shawn tried to think of way to get his father's attention. He couldn't tip the chair; he'd already tried. If he couldn't cry out— how could he tell his father, "No, whatever you do, don't give them what they want"?

_* * *_

After Juliet left with Vick, Henry had stayed on. For some reason, he couldn't bear to leave Lassiter alone— not right now anyway. He figured that his reaction was much like the others— he'd never seen Lassiter look so fragile, never seen him with his eyes closed other than to blink. There had been one time he'd stopped by the station because he knew Shawn was there, and Henry had noticed Lassiter's arm in a sling— but the detective wasn't letting a little thing like a broken arm slow him down. He continued to bark orders and even directed officers with the fingers draped out of the sling; Henry sighed. He looked over the IV lines and remembered hearing Karen mention something about a morphine drip. She had come in briefly; Henry realized that seeing Lassiter like that was too much for her. She didn't have the luxury Juliet had— she couldn't weep because she was too worried— she had a job to do. She had given the order for Lassiter's arrest; but Henry knew she was furious that Lassiter had ended up in this condition. The pieces weren't as neat and convenient as they had been. Vick had to find out who did this, why. And what Shawn had to do with any of it. Where he was.

Around seven thirty, Henry's cell phone began to ring. He froze, fumbling to get it out of his pocket with fingers that were suddenly slick with sweat. He couldn't imagine anyone but Shawn calling him— but Shawn was gone. Henry pressed the talk button to answer the call. The name and number on the screen read: _Blocked._ "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Spencer."

Henry got to his feet, wandering from Lassiter's bed towards the window. The sun had gone down and the sky was filled with dusk colors. "Who is this?"

"That's not important," the man's calculating voice said. "What's important is that I haveh your son."

Henry's breath stumbled in his throat. "You— you what?"

"I haveh your _son_," the man repeated slowly, his tone growing darker. "Shawn Spencer."

_Oh, god._ Henry started shaking. He took the phone from his ear and stared at the screen for a moment, but the only things on the screen were the words "Blocked" and the time elapsing during the call. "You have Shawn," Henry breathed, speaking into the phone again. "Please, let me speak to him."

The man made a harsh tsking sound. "Ah, this is not how this little game is played, Mr. Spencer."

"But—"

"You haveh something I want— something I need— and I, in turn, haveh something you want."

"What? Me? What could I have?"

There were sounds of a scuffling on the line; Henry heard flesh hitting flesh, then a low whine in the background. He heard the man growl,  
"Talk to your father," followed by a whimper.

"Shawn? Shawn?" Henry called into the phone, his voice raising. A muffled voice was trying to speak— but Henry couldn't make out any of the words. He kept calling out his son's name, but the sounds didn't get any clearer.

The man came back on the line. "I was generous, because you seem to need convincing, Mr. Spencer," the man snarled, "but I suggest that if you do not want me to throttle your son again"— Henry flared with red anger— "you will shut your mouth. You haveh some documents that I need returned to me. Your son here thought they would be safest with you."

_Documents? What docu— No._ Henry swung his eyes towards Lassiter, who still hadn't moved. "I—"

"I will give you some time to locate and collect these documents— take good care of them, Mr. Spencer. They are the only reason I haveh not slit your son's throat." The man chuckled at Henry's sharp intake of breath. "We will be in touch— and one more thing. Do _not_ tell the police we haveh spoken. I am very serious." Henry heard a muffled yell, and then the man's voice again. "Do as you're told, or he will pay dearly." The call ended.

Henry stood there for a long time, staring at the phone. The man's words were already haunting him; did that muffled voice really belong to Shawn? Part of him hoped it was a nasty prank call— but the man had mentioned the papers Shawn had given him. He had said that Shawn "thought they would be safest" with him. Henry hated the way his son's name sounded in the man's mouth, like a dark thing, like a problem. _Shawn Spencer._ _Oh, god. Oh, god. _It was true— Shawn wasn't just hiding out somewhere; he _had_ been kidnapped. Henry's legs were suddenly akin to Jell-O; he wobbled back to chair next to Lassiter's bed. "Please," Henry murmured, involuntarily grabbing Lassiter's clammy hand, "please wake up. I need your help." Lassiter didn't stir. Henry felt tears coming to his eyes; he didn't care if they fell or not. "Oh, Shawn."

_* * *_

_Great job, _Shawn sneered at himself. Granted, his neck and the top of his head throbbed where Notte had grabbed him— the shock that burst all over his face when Notte's hand closed around his throat and yanked his head towards the phone; and the eruption of pain across his skull did warrant a cry— but he hadn't wanted to give Notte that satisfaction. The man was obviously enjoying toying with his father; the pain he was putting Shawn through to scare Henry seemed part of his normal routine— he was practiced. As soon as Notte muttered that Shawn was going to "pay dearly" if Henry failed to get the ransom, Shawn was struck with the memory that had come to Lassiter, where Notte had snarled the exact same thing at him.

"Now, wasn't that fun," Notte mumbled, amused at the hatred in Shawn's eyes. "And you mustn't worry— if your throat is cut, I will not be the one to do it. I must save all my energy so I can get Mr. Lassiter the agonizing death he deserves— though it is such a shame a person can only die once."

Shawn's hatred transformed into horror. _God, I shouldn't have left him alone,_ Shawn thought, recalling the night— was it last night?— that he'd offered to play Lassiter's bodyguard, but Lassie had refused, telling him he would be all right. Lassiter was a grown man. He would never admit he needed to be protected— but Shawn knew better. Had this been any other time— but, it wasn't. They'd kidnapped Lassiter— they were stalking him. Hell, the young woman had been right outside his place that night; then there were those sets of keys. _God._ _I shouldn't have listened to him. I knew that he was— unstable. I knew what he'd been through— _He shook his head fiercely. Now, Lassiter really was all alone. Shawn figured that fear for Shawn's safety would be enough to keep Lassiter from revealing anything to Vick. _How did things get so screwed up? They'd made progress— god. For nothing._ Now, he forced his father to be involved, and he was being held for ransom. What were they going to do to Henry when he brought those papers?

* * *

Henry was reluctant to leave Lassiter when visiting hours were over, but he knew there wasn't any way he'd be allowed to stay. He hoped that by tomorrow, Lassiter would wake up and maybe they could talk about— Henry shook his head slowly. Who was he kidding? According to Vick, Lassiter had been choked unconscious— they couldn't be certain if there was any damage to his vocal chords until after he awoke— even then? Lassiter's bottom lip was swollen to twice its normal size; Henry hated to imagine the size of man's fist— especially since Shawn may have had that man's fist in his own face. Henry's eyes darted around. _Could that have been the same man he spoke to on the phone— the kidnapper?_

He wished Shawn would have told him more about this case; though, even if he had believed Lassiter could be guilty of murder before— he hadn't given it any thought— he was much less certain now. _Who would have beaten him up? A member of the murder victim's family?_ Again, Henry shook his head. Even though there was the slightest chance that that could be a possibility— _no, it couldn't_. The perpetrator wasn't some angry out-of-shape man throwing a couple of lucky punches. Whomever beat Lassiter knew exactly what he was doing— he was practiced. _A fighter maybe. A boxer. A— hitman. A goon. A bodyguard._ Henry ran through the possibilities in his head. B_ut— why? Who would even send a person like that after Lassiter . . . after Shawn?_ So, he had spoke to a man— cruel, sadistic— and he made it clear that Shawn had been kidnapped for a ransom. And the ransom was those documents in his safe— which somehow involved Lassiter. Henry knew, as an ex-cop, he should call Karen immediately and tell her about the call— but as Shawn's father— he knew he couldn't. Not yet. Shawn and Gus had been trying to help Lassiter beat a murder rap; Vick, Henry figured, knew nothing about this.

As soon as Henry stepped inside his house, he locked all the doors and checked every room before he opened the safe. He pulled out all the things Shawn had given him, but put the camera back. Henry set the journal aside and laid the packet of pages on the dining room table. He took a seat in one of the chairs and started to skim through the packet.

_Test run by: Greg Motgemery_

_Test run for: Burton Guster_

_Source: empty water glass. Source was swabbed for residual trace; trace found most prominent on bottom of glass, also on sides. Residue found to contain nearly twice a normal dosage._

_Results: Flunitrazepam_

_Marketed as a hypnotic drug and has sedative . . . _

What was it Shawn had said? _"Lassiter asked me to have something tested for him, so I asked Gus. Gus had it tested in a lab at Central Coast, and these are the results. Well, these are copies. The originals were misplaced before Gus was arrested."_ Henry shook his head. He knew almost nothing about what Shawn had uncovered that could be of possible help to proving Lassiter's innocence, and it wasn't as if he could just ask Shawn or Lassiter to explain it for him. He ran a hand across his face, looking over the first couple pages. A familiar name caught his eye. _Gus. That's right._ Shawn had said that a day after these results had come back, Gus had been put under arrest— the charges seeming ludicrous. A cold chill shot down Henry's spine. In spite of the obvious, Henry knew something wasn't right here.

Henry wondered how much Gus knew. He tried to figure out a way to get into see Gus; but should he burden Gus with all this? "He'd want to know about Shawn," Henry mumbled aloud. He thought if Vick would let him in under that pretext— didn't it seem innocent enough?— maybe he could get some answers. "Worth a shot," he mumbled. He pulled his phone from his pocket and set it next to the stack of papers— _Shawn's ransom_, he realized. A thought struck him like an electrical charge. The man on the phone hadn't said a thing about letting Shawn go.

* * *

Juliet was too keyed up to go home. She stayed at the station, at her desk, into the long hours of the night. She knew Samuelson was at his, getting Lassiter's report ready. McNab, also still there, was working on the one for Shawn's office. After reading over report of Max Sweets' murder for the twentieth time, she opened Carlton's file on Roman Cavaliere. For now, she had set Shawn's keys aside, though she stole glances at them every now and then. She wasn't certain how the file could be pertinent to the day's horrible events, but she felt she needed some kind of distraction. Juliet knew she'd let herself get much too upset over Lassiter— but, seeing him like that— _no. No._ She just couldn't bear it. Though she only thought of their relationship as professional and platonic, seeing him like that— it was like a stake through the heart. Or a nail. She was so angry that someone thought that they could just do that— and get away without any penalty. What truly made her rage was that so far, there were no leads.

She read through the file, not stopping until her vision blurred. Roman Cavaliere had been apprehended in the abandoned basement of La Estrella Negra Hotel. The list of charges against him went on for six pages. She could hardly believe it. At the end of the case file, there was a small, handwritten note on a piece of loose-leaf. A crime scene photograph was attached underneath the note. She squinted to read the small print.

"Detective O'Hara." Juliet looked up to see Vick, who had dark circles under her eyes, standing at her the front of her desk. "What are you still doing here?"

Juliet sighed. "I don't know." Taking one more glance at Lassiter's old file, she closed it. She felt very tired all of a sudden. "Going over everything again, I guess."

"Go home. I'll need you here first thing, as alert as possible." She gave Juliet a meaningful look. "Those we care about are depending on us."

And, there it was. Juliet stood as she watched Vick wander back to her office. Juliet knew that this didn't change things completely— Lassiter was still under arrest, still the only suspect in a murder. Juliet pinched the bridge of her nose. She had known it all along— something wasn't right with this whole thing— ever since Lassiter reappeared after going missing for 36 hours. She sighed, and opened the file again. One more pass, just in case there was something she missed.

* * *

Henry woke early, around 6 am, having barely slept. He put away the packet and the journal, which he hadn't even opened, in the safe, and turned in. But he kept staring at his cell phone, as if willing it to ring so he could hear Shawn's voice. He went over the call until he drifted off to an uneasy sleep. As he stared at the white ceiling of his bedroom, he got a flash of Shawn's face in his head. Shawn was stepping off of his porch, telling Henry, "See ya." There would be no going back to sleep now.

He shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. On his third cup, he started making phone calls. Henry spent hours on the phone that morning, trying to find some loophole that would allow him to see Gus. After calling the SBPD, he found out that Gus had been transferred to county lockup to await trial. He refused to hang up until they told him who was representing Gus, then Henry spent more time trying to convince Gus's lawyer to take him to see Gus. Finally, he broke down and confessed— his son, Shawn, had a bad habit of running away, and Henry was worried because he hadn't heard from Shawn in a couple of days. Since Gus was Shawn's best friend, he might know where Shawn may have run off to. "Please," Henry pleaded, "my son's missing and Gus may be the only hope to finding him." It was true enough. Plus, as an ulterior motive, he wanted to be the one to tell Gus about Shawn's abduction— Gus should hear it from him rather than by way of a scattered conversation among prisoners or guards or the news. Henry hadn't heard anything else in the media about Lassiter, or about Shawn and suspected that Vick had put a gag order on the department, but the lawyer didn't need to know this.

After that, he had to beg the lawyer to let him see Gus privately— as private as a communal visitor's room could be anyway. At least they had their own table, and if they kept their voices down— which might be tricky because of the rest of the noise from other tables— then maybe they could talk. Henry sat and waited until Gus was led in— in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him. Henry felt his stomach sour. This was not where Gus belonged.

Gus didn't look happy to see Henry; he still had the dulled look of someone incredulous of the way something had turned out. Henry frowned to see that usual spark Gus had when he and Shawn were in the thick of mischief had burned out. His voice was flat as he addressed his best friend's father.

"Mr. Spencer. What are you doing here?"

"Are you all right?" Henry asked, feeling stupid for asking such a stupid question. Gus stared back for a few moments but didn't answer. If Henry Spencer was here— something really awful must have occurred. Gus waited for Henry to speak.

Henry didn't know where to begin. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts, even though all morning he'd been practicing what he was going to say— to Vick, to Gus, to anyone who tried to talk him out of anything. "It's Shawn," Henry sighed, meeting Gus's eyes.

"What is?" Some emotion returned to his voice. It seemed he was bracing himself for bad news.

"Gus— Shawn was kidnapped yesterday."

Gus felt his face get hot, then a coldness struck his chest, leaving him breathless. _Kidnapped? Shawn was kidnapped?_ He must have misheard. Gus shook his head, but listened to Henry's explanation, which included Lassiter battered and unconscious in a hospital bed, with possibly the same person responsible for both attacks. Gus was stunned to learn about Lassiter. After Henry finished, Gus said, "Are you sure? I mean, maybe he just—"

Henry shook his head deliberately. He leaned across the table as far as he could without looking conspicuous and whispered to Gus how he knew exactly that Shawn had been taken.

"What?" Gus exclaimed, his eyes going wide.

"I can't tell the police— you've got to keep it quiet."

Gus humphed. "That's what my lawyer advised me to do anyway." He paused. "This is my fault— I told him he couldn't drop Lassiter's case because I—" He sighed. "It was partly selfish— I guessed that my sudden charges had something to do with fact that I got those results on that glass that Lassiter—"

"Yeah," Henry muttered, interrupting him. "That's the other reason I wanted to talk to you. Can you sum up what kind of work you and Shawn were doing to help Lassiter clear his name? First off, I looked through those pages last night. What exactly is— flunitrazepam?"

"Rohypnol," Gus breathed. "Lassiter went missing—" He started to explain what he remembered Lassiter telling him and Shawn that night they'd brought the Chinese food over.

"Wait, wait," Henry stopped him, furrowing his brow. "Lassiter said _he_ was kidnapped?"

"Yeah," Gus confirmed. "But no one believed him— except for Shawn. And then me— it took a while, though. Shawn kept saying that something wasn't right— even though Lassiter tried to get us to back off. He said it was too dangerous for us to be involved. I know Shawn was scared, but even after that picture, and then Shawn's attack in that alley, Shawn insisted that he wouldn't be bullied into dropping the case."

"Gus, hold on," Henry said. "What picture? What attack?"

Gus told him. Henry's face paled when the photograph was described; then the attack— "That bruise on his arm?"

Gus looked surprised. "How do you know about that?"

Henry frowned. "Shawn showed me— when he handed over the papers. He told me a little about it, but kept insisting he was fine."

Gus nodded. "Yeah. For me, too. I tried to get him to report it." Gus sighed. "To me, it seemed like an abduction attempt." Gus found it unreal to believe that Shawn had actually been abducted. "You said that the same guy who brutalized Lassiter took Shawn?"

Henry sighed. "That's the police theory. But they seem stunned— clueless, but angry as hell." He shrugged. "It's a good time for them to get wise."

"Mr. Spencer— you're not planning on taking the ransom yourself, are you?" Gus asked, worried suddenly.

Henry shrugged again. "I don't know, Gus. The creep I talked to last night didn't give me much— he just told me that he'd hurt Shawn if I didn't do what he asked." Henry gulped, deciding to keep the throat slitting threat from Gus's ears.

"Are you really sure that he has Shawn? I mean, if he didn't even let you talk to him—"

Henry pursed his lips wryly. "He knew about the documents. He knows Shawn's name. Gagged or not—" _I just know._ He pressed his face against his hands. "God, if that bastard hurts him— I just don't know what I'll do."

"What are you going to do now?" Gus asked after a few minutes of silence.

Henry sighed. "What I have to." He studied Gus's face. "I'm going to pick up where Shawn left off— get you out of here, get Shawn back, and— protect Lassiter. Even though he's—"

"Protect Lassiter?" Gus repeated. He thought about it. "Yeah, I guess that's what Shawn was trying to do. Funny, I guess, since they annoy the hell out of each other."

"He saved Lassiter's life," Henry told Gus, explaining about how Shawn had called the police following the voice mail he received. "From what Vick said, there was a chance Lassiter could have died— choking on his own blood."

Gus's eyes bulged. "God," he muttered. He sighed. "Mr. Spencer, please be careful. It's pretty obvious that whoever these people are and whatever they want— with or from Lassiter— they don't like it when people get in their way."

"Or don't do what they're told." Henry sighed. He wished he could rely on police protection— and the assumption that they could solve everything in time, but he wasn't about to chance it.

_* * *_

When Henry got to hospital later that afternoon, a nurse was at Lassiter's bedside, pressing a compress to the detective's swollen left eye. "Ice is the best thing," she told Henry, who dropped into a chair on the other side of the bed. "How do you know Detective Lassiter?" she asked after a few minutes. Henry spoke while she changed the compress; he tried not to gape at black bruise of skin around Lassiter's eye.

"We've been fishing a few times," Henry said. "I'm a retired SBPD sergeant," he added, embellishing that Lassiter liked to talk shop— away from the job— with someone who knew his stuff.

"That's nice," the woman said, nodding with a friendly smile. "He hasn't had any other visitors— except that sweet young woman who I think is his partner, and that captain— Ms. Vick, I think, but that was yesterday."

"How's he doing?" Henry asked, fidgeting. "Is he— I mean, do you think he's close to waking up? Coming out of this?"

The nurse pursed her lips. "You would have to consult with his doctor for prognosis, but in my own opinion, I think he has a strong will. I think he's trying to wake up."

Henry looked up, surprised. "Why do you say that?" To him, Lassiter looked exactly the same— not only a battered mess but as statuesque as yesterday.

"His pulse is very strong, and his breathing is steady— no more of that wheezing." She smiled slightly. "I know the way he looks on the outside is bad, well." She paused. "I don't want to get your hopes up if I'm wrong, though it seems like he's fighting— as if there's something he needs to wake up for." Henry narrowed his eyes, studying Lassiter, trying to see what the nurse did.

After another five minutes with the new compress, the nurse left. "I don't know if she's right," Henry muttered aloud, "but I hope for hell she is. I need you to wake up— so does my son." Henry held his breath, waiting for Lassiter to give him any sign, but the minutes went on, the same. He sighed.

* * *

Shawn jerked awake with a groan. His neck was stiff. He turned his head and heard a few pops and cracks from stiff joints. _God, I'm still here,_ he thought miserably, peering around at the windowless room. _I hoped it was just a really bad dream brought on by—_ His stomach twisted suddenly with protest— it both wanted and loathed the thought of food. He wondered if they were planning to feed him. His mouth was so dry he'd just take a drink of water over any kind of food they might offer. Shawn tested all the ropes again; still tight. He didn't remember falling asleep, but after Notte called his father and left, not one of them had bothered him for the rest of the— Shawn shook his head. _Could it be morning?_ The door to the room was wide open, but all he could see out of it was the gray of concrete, so it was impossible to tell what time of day it could be. For a while after Notte left, Shawn had tried to concentrate on getting the gag out of his mouth. But it was too tight to just push it out with his tongue. He remembered his last words before the man shoved it in his mouth: _"Let me go." _Or, at least, that's what he'd been trying to say. If only someone had heard him.

Someone— other than Henry— must know he was missing. When he'd failed to show up at Lassiter's after telling Juliet he was on his way . . . well, he hoped someone was missing him. Looking for him. But he hadn't the slightest idea where he was— the only one who might know was Lassiter. Shawn gulped, remembering a part of Lassie's message, where he heard a man's baritone yell out, _"You shut your mouth or I shut it for you!"_ This could only be Martey. Shawn shivered. If Martey hadn't shut Lassiter's mouth for good, he'd at least closed it for now. _For how long?_ Shawn hated not knowing— not knowing where he was, what condition Lassiter was in, or if they were going to release him, as well as let Henry go once they got those copies— and the things he did know he couldn't tell to anyone right now. He couldn't tell Vick he had proof of Lassie's innocence or that Lassie was being stalked— or that it wasn't possible that Gus was the black clad figure on that tape. He sighed with frustration. How was he going to get out of here?

Shawn was suspicious when he saw Cybil walk into the room, carrying a bottle of water. Cybil was wearing a different set of clothing, so Shawn assumed a day had passed. As far as he could tell, the seal was unbroken, but he wasn't sure he should drink anything they offered. But his mouth was so parched. He stared at the bottle as if it were some kind of precious treasure.

Cybil tucked the bottle under his arm and loosened the knot around the cloth. Before pulling it free, he coldly studied Shawn's face, but didn't say a word. Shawn was relieved when the cloth was around his neck; he took in some wheezy breaths. Cybil cracked the seal on the bottle and twisted off the cap. "Drink," he mumbled to Shawn, tipping the neck towards Shawn's dry lips. Shawn drank greedily, thankful the water was cool, until Cybil pulled the bottle away and capped it. Less than a quarter of it was gone. Shawn eyed the rest; Cybil set the bottle on the floor near a wall. He crossed his arms and stared at Shawn.

"What are you going to do with me?" Shawn heard himself ask, though his voice cracked.

Cybil spat on the floor but refused to speak to Shawn.

Notte appeared a short time later, also wearing different clothes. "Has _le sensitivo_ been watered?"

_"__Si_," Cybil replied.

"Geez, what am I, a horse?" Shawn muttered, but bit his lip.

Notte scowled in Shawn's direction, and then asked Cybil for something in Italian. Cybil eyed him strangely, but handed over the water bottle. "Mr. Spencer, at the moment I would want for nothing more than to see you gagged—" Shawn frowned, and mumbled a low curse. Notte opened the bottle and shook half its contents into Shawn's face. Shawn cried out angrily; some of the water dripped into his mouth, but it wasn't nearly enough to quench his thirst. The front of his shirt was soaked now. "I must converse with you and—"

"I'm not telling you anything!" Shawn yelled out, still angry.

Notte chuckled. "You haveh no choice in the matter." He waved a hand to Cybil, who reached inside his jacket pocket and eased out a silver revolver. Shawn's eyes widened. "So, what? You're going to shoot me if I don't talk?" His voice held an undercurrent of fear.

"I'm sure it won't be necessary," Notte continued. He waved and Cybil slipped the gun back in his jacket. "Now, we haveh not been formally introduced. I know you— though I admit I haveh not watched you as closely."

Shawn was startled. _What the hell was this guy doing? Formally introduced?_ "I don't need any introductions," Shawn told him, shaking his head. "All I need is for you to let me go."

Notte frowned. "No, Mr. Spencer. You are here for a reason. It was your choice."

"It was not my choice to be kidnapped," Shawn said bitterly. "The cops will find me."

Notte sighed. "Your police friends do know about your abduction, but they will never find you."

Shawn's eyes bulged. _They know? _"What, you didn't try to clean up the office like you did with Lassiter's apartment?"

Cybil's tone cut in, startling Shawn. "How do you know that?"

Shawn set his lips. "I'm psychic."

"You are missing— it is another distraction," Notte said. "They wonder all they wish, but they do not know who or why." His face split into a small grin. "You will distract them from focusing energy on who may have beaten Mr. Lassiter."

_Beaten? Oh, god._ Shawn stared up at Notte, angry and sick. "You— he—?"

"Ah, yes," Notte muttered, gazing back at Shawn with amusement. "He was clever, calling you for help, but I know that Marte enjoyed shutting his mouth."

Shawn dropped his gaze, trying to put the pieces together from the small bits of information he was getting.

"But that you called the police," Notte continued, tsking. "That you helped him—" Shawn yelped as Notte grabbed him around the throat and spat on his face. "I could almost _kill_ you for such." He released Shawn and stepped back. Shawn's heart raced violently and there was an uncomfortable heat on his face, like a furious blush. "Ah, but now you are here with us. You can no longer help him."

"He is ours," Cybil said. "For what we please. _Allora_ _morte_."

Shawn's eyes darted back and forth between the two. He wanted them to demand they leave Lassiter alone, but he wagered that would earn him either a cruel laugh or a nasty slap.

_"__Una morte dolorosa_," Notte agreed.

"For what you please?" Shawn repeated. "Like trying to turn him into a thief? Framing him for murder? Turning his colleagues against him? Making everybody think he's crazy?" His voice had steadily rose until it was shrill.

_"__Si_," Cybil replied with a nod.

"He deserves pain," Notte said.

"You keep saying that," Shawn muttered. He tugged on the ropes holding his wrists together behind his back, but they still wouldn't budge. _Goddammit._

Notte smiled suddenly. Shawn found it eerie; Notte's scar seemed to glow. "Ah, _si_, you do not know why. Perhaps, after you know my name, sense will come to you. Mr. Spencer, my name is Bernise."

Shawn jerked his head up, catching him off guard. He peered up at the man with the scar and his empathetic nod. _Bernise? As in, "Mr. Bernise will be angry . . .?" As in, "Bernise Locksmith Company"?_ Notte's dark eyes held his.

Shawn let his face sink into a scowl.

"This is Cybil," Notte said with a sweep of his hand. Shawn didn't look in Cybil's direction, but felt the man staring back with equally hard eyes. "You have met my wicked daughter— Donia," Notte continued, his jaw tightening with annoyance of yesterday, no doubt. "And you have already become acquainted with Marte."

Shawn scowl deepened. He would have crossed his arms if he could. He had to settle for making fists behind his back. _So Donia Notte was . . . related to Notte . . . Bernise Notte, _he thought slowly.

"Now, Mr. Spencer, I never cared for my given name," Notte continued, his distaste evident. _"Bernise_." He frowned at his own name. "It belonged to my grandfather— so it must also be mine, as the eldest son. Ah, I always envied my brother's name—" Notte's eyes gleamed. "It was so, how you say, dashing, smooth— it suited him. He had the kind of name which flows off the tongue."

Shawn's stomach knotted, and not from hunger pangs this time. He was picking up Notte speaking of his brother in the past tense, and he did not want to link this to some earlier conversation he'd had with Lassiter; Shawn's fear spiked.

"Why, Mr. Spencer," Notte said, pausing, "you look so frightened— has some special vision already come to you?" Notte's eyes narrowed.

Shawn tried to think of something to ad lib, but all he heard come out of his mouth was a squeak and the words, "Please— just let me go."

Cybil laughed dryly. Shawn risked a glance at him. "His name was Roman Cavaliere," Shawn heard Notte say. A line of sweat broke out on Shawn's temples. He slowly moved his eyes back to Notte's, who wore a partial smile. Shawn found it disturbing.

"Roman Cavaliere was my brother," Notte repeated. "My only one." He nodded towards Cybil. "And Cybil was his only son."

Shawn's head snapped to Cybil. _What? Cybil was the drug lord's son? Was that why the two of them attacked and kidnapped Lassiter, when they could have easily sent Marte to retrieve their prize? Because it was personal. But why— why was it personal?_ Shawn took some deep breaths. "But Lassiter didn't kill your brother," he said quietly. "He was killed in jail, by another inmate."

"Who _put_ him there?" Cybil snapped.

Shawn swallowed. "The police. Um." He thought back to what Lassiter told him about the Cavaliere case. "Like a dozen officers. But your brother was the one who committed the crimes. Why single out Lassiter?" He looked with questioning eyes at both Notte and Cybil, who stared back with angry frowns. Shawn tried not to look at Notte's eyes because he could sense they were burning a hole right into his skin.

"Ah, so the detective has discussed the case with you." He paused, as if considering the possibilities. He finally shook his head. "For another time, Mr. Spencer." Notte looked at the back of his hand intently, and Shawn wondered if Notte was going to slap him with it. He was relieved when Notte dropped the hand to his side. He leered over Shawn. "Our plans— we think they were simple," Notte said with a sneer. "But we did not know you, Mr. Spencer." His tone was filled with so much venom that Shawn had to work to keep his breathing steady. Notte shook his head slowly. "Nothing to stop you. Almost." Notte fixed Shawn with steely look. "But now he has remembered. He knows he is not big bad killer— all because of you."

"How did you find that out?" Shawn blurted out, then bit his lip.

Notte looked mildly amused. "For all her little obsessions, my Donia does have her secret ways." He sighed. "Obsession is an unhealthy habit; she is bound to get her heart broken."

Shawn frowned, but Notte didn't explain anything further. Notte waved a hand towards Cybil and turned to go. "Gag him, Cybil," he said before he left.

After Notte was out the door, Cybil detached himself from the far wall and came towards Shawn slowly. Shawn swallowed hard, waiting for some kind of abuse or nasty word from the man— who seemed to be just a few years old than he was— but Cybil did something curious that left him stunned long after he was left alone. Cybil picked the bottle of water off the floor and tilted its lip towards Shawn's mouth. "Drink," he said, devoid of any emotion. Shawn stared up with surprise, but accepted the small quarter of water still left in the bottle. After he was done, Cybil tucked the empty bottle under his arm and pulled the cloth back into Shawn's mouth, tying it as tightly as before. Then he walked out.

Shawn stared at the open door for a long time; he couldn't explain why his eyes were suddenly filled with tears. He let them fall without any sound, and let the unwanted conversation replay itself while he tried to calm down.

* * *

_The man turned towards him— This was the face made of smoke. Not certain of his real name, Lassiter thought it might be Notte. "Cavaliere," Notte snarled in his face, yanking his hair hard. "You did this." He remembered back to the night he was abducted from his apartment. The curled scar under his left eye. Notte had knocked the phone from Lassiter's hands just before he could complete the call to 911. He had made a grab for Lassiter, but the detective swung out and caught him in the face. The attacker grunted and Lassiter jumped forward, getting his fingers under the ski mask and pushing up. As soon as the scar was exposed, Notte got Lassiter's wrist and twisted it. Lassiter purposely stumbled backward, trying to free himself. _

_The table. That's right, it toppled over when he backed into it. Another hard twist of his wrist yanked him forward, almost completely level his attacker's chest. _

_The second man, still masked, appeared with the syringe. By now the man had his hand over Lassiter's mouth, just in case the detective would start yelling. "He saw your face, Notta," he hissed with a thick unplacable accent, jamming the needle into Lassiter's exposed arm. _

He started to yell— to wake up. Pain spiraled up his ribs, wetness slipped onto his cheeks. Why, why couldn't he open his eyes?

* * *

"Shawn Spencer has been kidnapped." He wasn't certain who had said it, but Carlton knew for certain it had been said, to him, right now. _Spencer, kidnapped. When? How? Who? Was there a ransom? _It seemed as if there were wads of cotton in his ears; the side of his head pounded hard. _Was I knocked out?_ he wondered dimly, keeping his eyes as slits a huge battle. The skin around his left eye swollen; he could only open his left eye for the tiniest of blinks.

"Take it easy," a voice said.

"Don't let him get agitated," another voice said, female, stern. "He's only just woken up."

A hand against his arm, just resting there, near one of the red bruises he'd sustained trying to shield his face from whatever had been thrown. _That's right,_ he recalled slowly. _The door, its snap against the wall, the giant framing the doorway, menace on his features. _

"Any news?" Another voice, youngish. "Oh!" Another hand on his skin, this one resting tentatively against the fingers of his sprained wrist.

"O'Hara, he's just come around. Be careful."

The voices, their pitches, tones, swimming around his head like a halo, the light in the room so bright. He moaned, but didn't want to go back into sleep. He felt groggy.

"Don't try to speak." He closed his eyes, following the thread of each voice back to its keeper, isolating sounds. His head pounded badly, and he felt as if he might vomit.

"You've been on a steady morphine drip for two days, Carlton." He knew this voice; he squinted towards it but couldn't make anything out with his vision. "Just take it easy."

A thought was stabbing his subconscious. _Spencer. Kidnapped. Ask it. Ask it_.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, and if you feel up to it, nod your head once for yes, okay?"

He nodded, slowly, as if catching his head before falling into a doze.

"And squeeze my hand for no, okay?" a voice squeaked to his right. _O'Hara. _He tried to tilt his head in her direction, but was overcome with nausea. It ran its course through his body like a shot, through and through, some of it pooling in his mouth. He felt something rough dabbled at his lips, catching some dripping wetness.

"Excuse me, is this normal?" _Vick_, Carlton knew without a doubt that his superior was the voice at his left side. Her voice rose, and she was speaking somewhat heatedly with another female voice— he thought he had heard it a short while ago saying that he'd just woken.

"He was beaten, badly," the female said. "You know this. If we keep him on that drip, he might slip into a coma. These are some side effects. His body needs time to heal itself. I know this is frustrating for you—"

Carlton felt O'Hara's fingers gently squeezing his, a reassuring comfort. "Thank god you're awake," she said in hushed tones. "I've been so worried." Her fingers tightened, but not enough to have any effect on his sprain. "If Shawn hadn't called us, I just don't know—" It seemed like she was biting back tears, taking in small, fast breaths.

While Vick was still busy arguing with the nurse, Juliet bent forward and whispered close to his ear, "Can you hear me?" He nodded jerkily. "I need to tell you—"

Vick was back, frowning and pissed off. "Did you start without me?"

"No, ma'am," Juliet said, sitting back in her chair. But she didn't release her partner's hand.

Vick sighed audibly, and stared down at Lassiter and she dropped back into a chair next to his bed. She told him, in the simplest terms, how they had found him. Or, she tried to. She pressed her lips together. "This is going to be hard to hear, but I need you to stay calm, okay?" He nodded, slowly again. "The last thing we need is that b—"

Juliet looked up, startled.

Vick waved her hand absently. "I mean, that nurse, coming back in here and threatening more sedation." She shook her head, and then continued. "Carlton, you've been unconscious for two days. You're at Santa Barbara General. The day we— that is, Mr. Spencer, alerted us about your trouble, was the same day he vanished." She paused. "Are you following this?"

Carlton wasn't sure. Pressure behind his closed eyelids; he tried to moisten his lips, only to find out his mouth was also swollen to double its normal size. His lip also tasted of dried blood. He swallowed the trickle of a cry. He squeezed Juliet's hand.

"He says no," Juliet informed Vick. "May I try, Chief?"

Vick nodded. She pressed her fingers against her mouth. She shouldn't be here, questioning him like this. She recalled her reaction in his apartment with chagrin, insisting they— whomever could do it— get the house arrest cuff from his ankle before they took him to the hospital. Walking in, seeing him like that, was the last thing she'd ever expected. He was still under arrest, he was still the sole suspect in Max Sweets' murder, but— he was so vulnerable. She felt she needed to protect him in that moment.

"Carlton, you're in the hospital," Juliet began softly. "Two days ago, Shawn called me and told me that something had happened to you. He said he would meet us at your apartment." She paused. "Does that make any sense to you?"

He thought about it, and then nodded. Encouraged, she went on. "When we got to your apartment, we found that your door had been broken down. You were unconscious, on the floor." Her voice trembled. "Do you remember someone hurting you? Hitting you?"

He nodded again, and forced another wave of nausea away with deep breathing. "I'm so sorry." Juliet squeezed his hand to compose herself. "After we got help for you, I realized that Shawn hadn't shown up like he said he would." She glanced at Vick, wondering if her superior wanted to take this part of the story.

Vick nodded, and swallowed a gulp of air. She patted Lassiter's arm gently to get his attention. "I went with McNab and Hamilton to the Psych office," she told him, keeping her voice even, "to check in on Shawn because he was not answering his phone." She was hesitating. He could hear it by the way the air crinkled, as if holding its breath. "Carlton, the office was a mess. There had been a fight. Mr. Spencer's bike was in the parking lot, his cell phone in two pieces on the floor. He— he was gone. He's been kidnapped." She let her words sink in. Perhaps she should have used the word "missing" instead, but she realized how ironic that would sound to him. "There hasn't been any word—"

Why was it suddenly so cold in the room? Carlton didn't feel himself shaking; instead, the entire room waved; could it be an earthquake? The light in the room was still stable, but all around him, he heard cries— mostly the voices of women. A memory edged into his subconscious— _arms around his torso in a bear hug, dragging him from an abandoned lifeguard stand; he could see the man's dead eyes, staring up at the underside of the faded white of the boards, his mouth soaked with red. _

_"No!" Carlton yelled. "No!" There was such a big hole in the man's neck._

_"Haven't you done enough?" a harsh voice snarled in his ear. _

_"Let me go!" He held a balled up sticky, red cloth pressed between his palms. _

"Shut_ your mouth. Not another sound out of you," the voice commanded sharply._

_Lassiter wanted to yell with frustration but it seemed his jaws were clamped shut with glue. _

"What's wrong?" a woman's voice demanded, close to his head.

"We're doing everything we can—"

"Don't sedate him! Whatever this is, he needs to work it out of his system without the morphine."

_I have to get out of here, Lassiter thought as the big man pulled the shirt over his head. The girl smiled up at him. The guy just killed someone. He— he made me watch. Half of the words they were saying were in another language, which he couldn't translate. You should go, he told himself, but he couldn't make his muscles comply. If they had killed that man, what were they going to do to him? He'd seen their faces, knew their names. _

He looked up and saw only dark.

The doctors and nurses had pushed Juliet and Vick towards the window, out of the way. Neither knew what to do— Lassiter seemed to be— well, relatively speaking— alert, responsive.

"This is my fault," Karen mumbled, watching Lassiter's body tremble. A nurse was blotting the sweat from his forehead and cheeks, mindful of the bandages. Juliet stared back with a confused questioning look. "They told me to be careful— I got him too worked up." _Dammit. After all he's been through— what were you thinking?_ Vick chided herself.

Juliet heard Carlton's sharp, scared "No's" and the angry "Let me go!" again and again. "It's not your—" Juliet stopped when Vick's eyes bore into hers. "What if— what if he's reliving the attack, Chief?" she said quietly. "You couldn't have—"

Vick shook her head. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I thought, just because he was awake, he might be able to help us figure who took Mr. Spencer." She sighed. "Though he is here, in this condition, he is still the only suspect we have in a murder investigation."

Juliet widened her eyes to hold in a sudden, fresh wave of tears. She nodded tightly. "I haven't forgotten. But—"

They both jerked their eyes towards Lassiter's bed as they heard a moan. Lassiter's body had relaxed; it seemed he'd fallen asleep. The room was clearing. Vick stepped forward, catching one of the doctors by the elbow. "What was that?"

The doctor shook her head, worry written into the lines around her eyes. "I'm sure it's nothing, Chief Vick. Just a bad dream. Or perhaps, a flash of memory." The doctor gazed at Lassiter. "It seems he's resting peacefully now." As Vick looked over Lassiter, she was struck with a thought, _How long was that going to last? _

After everyone but she and Juliet had left, Vick stood next to Lassiter's bed, studying him. _Just a bad dream. God. That explanation was just too familiar._ Carlton had nodded when O'Hara asked him if he remembered being attacked; could it be possible that he'd just flashed to it and it was just too upsetting? They waited for a little while, but Lassiter didn't awaken.

As they were leaving, Juliet heard one of the nurses greet Henry Spencer warmly. "Chief," she said, "I'll meet you at the elevator." Vick nodded and continued walking.

Juliet stopped Henry before he went inside. She held back the comment of wondering why Henry Spencer was spending so much time here with Shawn missing. Instead she repeated what the nurse had said, how it was thoughtful of him to visit. Henry shrugged, trying not to let her make a big deal out of it. "I just can't spend all my time in that house, waiting, doing nothing," he said, not daring to mention the kidnappers could reach him at any time on his cell phone— should they call. Juliet scrunched her nose up; she wondered if Mr. Spencer was holding something back.

"How is he?" Henry asked. "Any change?"

Juliet nodded. "He's awake."

"What? Now?" Henry asked, flicking his eyes towards the room.

"Well, he was. We talked to him a little. He was responsive— but he couldn't speak. The doctor took him off the morphine drip because they worried he might fall into a coma. They said as soon as they stopped the morphine, he moved for the first time in two days." She sighed. She cast a glance over her shoulder and then turned back to Henry. Juliet grabbed his hands, startling him. "I don't know why, but I feel like I owe you a thank you, Mr. Spencer," she said in a low voice, looking him over. She set her face. "I promise I will bring Shawn back home, safe and sound." With a quick goodbye, she turned and scurried down the hall.

_What was that all about?_ Henry wondered, watching her catch up to Vick before opening Lassiter's door.

Henry paused before he sat down; Lassiter looked exactly the same as he had yesterday; Henry's breath caught in his throat. Lassiter opened his eyes, turning his head slowly towards Henry. His left eye was still swollen, but it seemed the ice was helping. Henry could clearly see Lassiter's blue eyes registering him.

"Jesus, kid," Henry muttered. "Thank god you're okay."

Lassiter tried to say something, but Henry couldn't make out any sound. He leaned forward, over the rail, and waited. Finally, he could make out the smallest sound, gaining strength in the air.

"Spencer."

Henry sighed and nodded tightly. "You mean Shawn?" he asked, waiting for Lassiter to nod, though the motion was slight.

He sighed again. "It's bad news, Carlton," he said. He looked to his left, as if he expected a nurse to appear and scold him. "He's been abducted. And I think you know why."


	20. Chapter 19: When Push Comes To Shove

**Chapter Nineteen:** **I'm Amazed, When Push Comes To Shove, What I'd Give To You— Everything; I'm Amazed, The Hallways I Wouldn't Mind Crawling Through, And I'd Do It For Days And For Days**

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Disclaimer: I don't own lyrics to Tori Amos's _Hotel_. Or the any of the lyrics which all of the chapter titles are taken from.

Italian Vocabulary (which I credit to wordreference dot com): _Sepolte vive_ = Buried alive

Latin Vocabulary: _Facilis descensus Averno_ = The way to Hell is easy/ the road to evil is easy

Author's Note: Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! I really love you all in that platonic friend way. Thanks for your time and your critiques. Helps keep me motivated! :D

This chapter contains minor Lassiter whumpage.

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* * *

"Detective, I've perhaps made a mistake allowing us to be here," Vick told Juliet once the younger woman had caught up with her.

Juliet was stunned Vick was having a change of heart. She could hardly believe Vick was refusing O'Hara to see him again. "He's still under arrest. You'll do well to remember that."

"Chief, I hadn't forgotten, I assure you," Juliet said, perhaps a little too snappishly. "But he's—"

"He's in recovery. Soon we can get to the bottom of this."

Juliet threw up her hands. "Lassiter was attacked, ma'am." She had to hold her tongue to stop from adding the rest. "Who would do that? Why?" When Vick refused to comment, Juliet muttered, "The real killer?"

"Because you're upset, O'Hara, I'm going to let that slide," Vick said in dangerous, low voice.

Juliet felt her face turn red. She refused to speak to her superior on the way back to the station, and then quickly retreated to her new partner's office so she could read over the file on the findings of Lassiter's apartment. Just because Vick had given her some kind of ludicrous order to stop her visits, she wasn't about to let this thing with Lassiter go— this whole thing.

Adam Samuelson walked in to find her furiously pouring over the file, turning pages hard enough to cause small tears on the outer edges. He was holding the report from McNab, but paused in his walking and reading to ask her if she was all right.

She snapped her head up angrily, but immediately softened her gaze. This wasn't Samuelson's fault; it wouldn't be fair to take anything out on him.

"How's Lassiter?" he asked softly. "I heard some whispers that he's awake."

Juliet nodded. "It's true."

Samuelson eyed her. "But you're not happy about it?"

Juliet sighed. "I am. I'm just so frustrated with the Chief. Every second it seems she's going to come around— just finally admit aloud that— that—" She sighed again, looking over Samuelson, who wore a curious look. "I'm sorry. Maybe _I_ shouldn't being saying it aloud."

Samuelson shrugged. He offered to trade reports with her, and they stood quietly, there in his joint office, reading over them for about five minutes. Then Samuelson surprised her. "You think that the bastard who attacked Lassiter is somehow involved in Max Sweets' murder." It was a statement, not a question. Juliet looked up slowly. Samuelson offered a small smile. "Believe me, you're not the only one. We already have it on pretty good authority that this same creep who beat up Lassiter abducted Shawn Spencer." He paused, waiting for her to ask why.

She furrowed her brow. "How good?"

"Blood tests came back," Samuelson said. He grabbed Lassiter's report and stood next to her while she held Shawn's. "You read it, right?" he asked, tapping Shawn's report. She nodded. "You read how there were splotches of blood found in that office?"

Juliet felt queasy, but nodded.

"We found two sets of blood types— in both places," Samuelson started. "This is, of course, separate from the DNA— finger nail clippings, pieces of hair— that we found in the office, which belong to Guster and Spencer, because they work there."

Juliet scrunched up her face, trying to follow.

"In Lassiter's place," he said softly, "most of the blood belonged to Lassiter." She nodded tightly, trying remain composed. _How could it not? _  
"The other blood we haven't found a match on yet; for all we know it belongs to a ghost."

_Okay, how was this good news?_ Juliet wondered. She was about voice this, when Samuelson continued. "Now, in Spencer's office, there's something curious. The blood found on the land line phone, and DNA pulled of that stapler also belong the 'ghost man'," he said. "But the other blood— on the cell phones, on the blinds, the window— that was Lassiter's blood, not Spencer's."

_What? _"It wasn't Shawn's blood?" Juliet said, feeling relief flood her, then guilt. The man hadn't beaten Shawn— this was great, but he'd gone for Shawn directly then, it seemed, after leaving Lassiter for dead.

Samuelson nodded. "I know it's only a small consolation," he said, reading her expressions. "But it also might mean—"

"Shawn was trying to help Lassiter," Juliet cut in, her hands flying to her mouth. _Why was she letting that slip out?_

"How do you know that?"

"Because when I dropped by his office a few days ago to ask him to help Lassiter, he was already doing it."

Samuelson stared at her; she was wincing. Any minute, she was sure, he was going sneer at her for poor judgment— choosing a psychic police consultant over her police family, but all he said was, "You wanted to get all the facts."

"In my gut," she muttered, "I just know. So, Carlton was missing. Then, he seemed different. What I mean is—" She stopped, shaking her head. "I know people can change. I know people you know can be capable of crimes—" Samuelson waited for her to sort out of her thoughts. Juliet pushed out a long breath. "I'm sorry. I just can't believe that Carlton is a murderer. I've worked at his side for three years." She searched Samuelson's eyes for judgment. Then she realized she didn't care.

Juliet motioned for him to follow her. She went to her desk and handed him Lassiter's old file. "Shawn thought that Lassiter's— recent problems— might have something to do with this case." Samuelson took the file and opened it. She explained that she had overseen some research of Shawn's while she had been there, and tried to remember what some of the articles had said.

"Huh," Samuelson muttered, staring intently at the file's contents.

Juliet waited, but her new partner didn't comment for a few more minutes.

"This name," Samuelson muttered.

"What about it? I'd never heard of it before."

Samuelson sighed. "I could be wrong, but I think this is the name that was changed." He flipped more pages. "Yeah," he said, nodding, almost to himself. "The family's name was changed— because of the scandal."

* * *

Carlton held Henry's eyes for a solid twenty seconds before he blinked. Inside, he felt a tremendous stab of fear followed quickly by an equally painful jab of guilt. _This— Spencer's abduction— was his fault._ Part of him still wished Shawn would have been scared off at the first sign of trouble— the picture, and wouldn't have looked back. He turned his head slowly, pressing it back into the pillow, but he could still feel Henry's gaze on him.

Henry sighed; he had seen a range of emotions flash through Lassiter's eyes before he turned his head. Lassiter had no idea what a blessing it was to Henry that he was moving. "Yesterday," Henry said, "this nurse told me you were fighting to wake up. It was hard for me to believe— you've had a lot of people scared, kid."

Carlton shifted his eyes towards Henry again, disbelief evident there. "I'm serious," Henry told him. Was Carlton imaging it, or did Henry sound a little choked up himself?

His throat hurt. When he moved his left hand towards it, he knew he didn't imagine seeing Henry jump. It also hurt to bend his left arm; he caught sight of a nasty red mark poking out of a white bandage. _He— threw that—_ Lassiter recalled it with intense vividness. He gasped. And then, backing up into the kitchen, bloody, drenched with sweat, so scared he could barely breathe. Getting his fingers around the knife. Lassiter's eyes widened; his right eye opening further than his left. "No," he moaned softly. "No." He could feel Marte's huge arm pinned across his throat; he could feel the air going out of his lungs—

"Take it easy," Henry muttered, his face pinched with worry. Lassiter felt Henry's hand on his; he hadn't realized that he'd gotten his left hand to his throat. Henry was gently pulling his hand back to the bed. Lassiter's hand was shaking under his. "You remember what happened?"

Lassiter nodded. He tried to speak again but coughed. He noticed that it was easier to stay in the awake place than earlier when— had he imagined that Vick and O'Hara had been here? He looked at Henry with the question in his eyes. Then another thought occurred to him. His brows pulled together.

"Here," Henry said, pushing a plastic cup towards his left hand. "Ice chips. I know they've got an IV line for fluids, but this might be faster." Henry realized Lassiter couldn't both hold the cup and take the chips, so he fished one off the top and pressed it against his mouth, above the swollen lip. Lassiter accepted it, feeling the coldness rush over his dry tongue. _Why was Henry Spencer here?_ he wondered. _If Shawn had been— kidnapped, that's right._ Vick had said it to him twice— she _had_ been here; he was pretty sure she'd been yelling at a nurse, now that he really thought about it. He accepted another chip from Henry. But why was he here? What had he said earlier? _"I think you know why— why Shawn was abducted."_ Lassiter, finishing another chip, stared at Henry, wondering how much he knew. _You'll have to ask him, out loud, _a small voice in his head told him helpfully. Right. If that was going to happen, he needed to find strength in his own voice— it was the only way he was going to help Shawn— by delving into some well of inner strength. _They made a mistake, taking him,_ Lassiter thought, with a dormant anger. _He's needed here. I'll get him back, safe— I have to. Even if it destroys me. _

* * *

Juliet started to ask Adam to elaborate, when one of the police lab techs came up to them. "I'll get the Chief," Adam said. "We'll meet you in there." They parted.

"Chief, the techs got Spencer's phone to work," Samuelson told Vick, leaning in the doorway. "They found the voice mail."

"All right," Karen said, getting up from her desk. She reasoned this was a good break from pouring over thoughts she wasn't sure what she could do with. She followed Samuelson to the lab, where O'Hara was waiting. The phone was plugged into a computer, which allowed for sound mixes and isolations.

"It's still rough," Shirley, one of the techs, warned. "We're working on cleaning it up."

"Play it," Vick instructed.

There was static, then a crackled voice yelled. _"Spe . . . I . . . eed . . . lp!"_

"Hold on," Shirley said. With a few keystrokes, she quickly cleaned out the static, and pressed play again. The effect made it more chilling. _"Spencer, I need help!"_ Lassiter's voice broke on the word "help", and a half of a second later, the phone seemed to have been tossed far away from him. The sounds of punches and glass shattering and other horrible sounds of the brawl were mostly clear and seemingly just as loud as if the phone had still been in his hand. Only the voices, Lassiter's and the stranger's, were strained, far away, but no less chilling than Lassiter's first words.

As they listened to it, Vick's face turned white. Lassiter sounded panicked— well, he would be, she reasoned. His apartment had been broken into, and the man was beating the crap out of him. As they listened to it the first time, everyone but the techs seemed frozen; likely because they had already heard it twenty or so times already. Vick caught Samuelson out of the corner of her eye, pressing a hand against his mouth. O'Hara had both of her fists clenched stiffly at her sides, her eyes closed as if to block out the horrible noise. They listened to it five times through before anyone spoke.

They were able to piece together a crude scenario: the attacker broke in, Lassiter called the very first person he knew could trust— which truly stung all of them— the phone was taken away from him, glass shattered. There was another yell for help, though it was distanced, the voice was Lassiter's. The attacker and Lassiter fought; Lassiter taking most of the blows, and then attempted an escape, but had been overpowered.

"Sounds like there's another voice," Samuelson observed. "The attacker?"

Shirley swiveled in her chair. "I''m working on isolating that voice. It's tricky, because it seems he dropped the phone and the whole thing took place moderately far from the device." She used the mouse to click open a few more windows, and then dragged the cursor across the screen.

"I hear something, right before Lassiter yells for the first time," Juliet said, her tone strained.

Shirley nodded. "Okay, let me try this." The young woman worked quickly, removing all other sounds until the faintest voice was picked up. The deep growl of a man. _"You not going anywhere." _

There was a collective gasp in the room. _That voice certainly doesn't belong to a ghost,_ Juliet thought. The tech did some maneuvering, bringing up the other sounds but still managing to keep the voices as much in the foreground as possible. Shirley asked if they wanted to hear it again. No one spoke for a few seconds, then Vick told her quietly to continue.

Barely three seconds elapsed before Lassiter's louder cry. Then, after his second cry for help, the same deep growl said, _"You shut your mouth or I shut it for you." _They heard Lassiter's voice again, but it was too jumbled to make out the words. After that, the loud thud of someone slamming into a wall, followed shortly by another cry of pain. _"You son of a bitch,"_ Lassiter's voice growled back faintly. Another loud thud with the sound of more glass falling against the floor. Then it wasn't clear what was happening. All they could make out were sounds of something making contact with flesh, then more punches, which seemed to go on for much too long. Juliet held her breath. Then came sounds of furniture tumbling over. The man's growl from far away,_ ". . . too stubborn."_ The grunts, they assumed, belonged to Lassiter. Then came the sound of a kick, followed immediately by a anguished grunt of pain. It brought immediate tears to Juliet's eyes.

"That must be a kick to his ribs," Samuelson observed. Ten seconds later, there was another swift kick and the sound of obvious contact. Then, another kick and a sharp intake of breath.

"He must have got to his feet," Vick mumbled, hearing the stumbling footsteps of what could only be Lassiter in a daze attempting to move away from his attacker. They heard the footsteps on tile; he was in the kitchen. "This must be where the cell phone had fallen," Vick continued, noticing the sounds were louder and clearer. There was a whistle of an object tossed through the air and then a hard smack of contact before the object dropped to the tile. Samuelson shut his eyes with a grimace. He didn't say it aloud, but in his report, he had noted that the cordless telephone had been found on the kitchen floor on the left side of the island; that bastard must have thrown it directly at Lassiter's face. He stole a glance around the room, wondering if his face was as green as theirs.

Even though Lassiter was probably as close to the cell phone as he'd been when he first cried out, they couldn't make out any more of his voice. He must have been backing away while the attacker's clang of footsteps menaced towards him on the kitchen floor.

"He was found near the door," Samuelson said. "He must have been trying to get out." An odd thought struck him and he blurted it out before he'd really thought it through. "If he had and gotten too far from the box, the cuff would have beeped." He swallowed. "We would have been notified immediately that—"

Vick's and Juliet's jaws had dropped open and they were staring at each other with horror in their eyes. _Someone had _known_ that._ _How?_ "It was never public knowledge that he'd been put under house arrest," Vick edged out quietly. She was annoyed; could someone have leaked it to the media? But if not, the possibilities were scarier. _Someone had known._

"You think Spencer might have let it slip?" Samuelson asked, ignoring Juliet's frown.

Vick sighed, thinking it over. "No. There was a reason Lassiter trusted Mr. Spencer." Her frown was pinched. "Obviously, Mr. Spencer knew things we didn't."

After there was a clatter of something metal skidding across the floor, the voice mail ended. "That's all of it," Shirley told them. "Well, all that was recorded." She paused, looking them all over. "Do you want me to play it again?" They all seemed they were going to be sick all over her lab, but managed to stay composed.

As Karen listened again and again, a realization struck with the effect of a bolt of lightning. She had heard this same fear— terror— in Lassiter's voice before. Every other sound in the room was canceled out by these memories; she felt her shoulders shudder as if it were freezing in the room.

In his hospital bed, after he'd been discovered at the beach, telling her the account of his abduction . . . then later, after his arrest, when he'd tried to tell her about the stranger he'd insisted had come into his room that night— the reason he had left the hospital without a word. Though, she admitted, the fear had been subtle; he'd been much more conscious that he didn't want to come off as scared in front of her— because he knew she'd judge him for it. What about earlier today, when Lassiter had woken? His panicked cries, though his voice was very weak? Vick felt shame color in her skin in such a way she was certain everyone could see it all over her. Listening to this— there _was_ something wrong. Very, very wrong. There must be a reason— valid, as to why Lassiter was _this_ scared. And not just because of this recent attack. _Have I been blind?_ Vick asked herself, stunned. _Why did he call Shawn Spencer for help— why didn't he call us?_ She had to remind herself that Lassiter was awake. She turned for confirmation from Juliet, and realized the junior detective was no longer in the room.

Listening to the attack over and over again put a strain on all of them. Each time something was thrown or it sounded like one of them— presumably Lassiter— was taking a punch to the face, Juliet winced. By the end, after what seemed like endless hours, her shoulders had hitched up to her neck. After a while, all she could hear was Lassiter yelling, _"Spencer, I need help!" _with such terror and desperation— and helplessness, she realized, that she had to leave the room. Juliet looked at her watch. It was nearly four in the afternoon; she was struck that she'd entered that room nearly two hours prior. She was due for a break— now was as a good a time as any. She waited a few minutes, but no one emerged from the room to stop her. When she left word at the desk that she had an errand to run, McNab asked her what they had been doing in the techs' lab for such a long time.

She took a deep breath and stared up into his warm brown eyes, which now had a touch of concern swimming in them. "They were able to get the voice mail off Shawn's smashed phone— I guess it was still in the phone's computer." She shook her head. "It was rough. I mean, to hear over and over. Of course it would be." She offered a sympathetic look. "You're lucky you didn't have to hear it." _Haunting noises, trapped voices— Lassiter's voice— in pain._ It left her with such a hollowness in the center of her chest, she wasn't certain how she would ever fill up that space. For now, some amends. She nodded at Buzz and left without another explanation.

_* * *_

Juliet let herself into Lassiter's apartment, ducking under the black and yellow crime scene tape. The scene— his apartment— was just as terrible as it had been before— with one exception. She frowned, lines creasing her forehead. Trying not to linger too long in the front rooms, Juliet set her face and made her way to Lassiter's bedroom. Her eyes lingered on the night stand next to his bed as she paused, trying to think of the best clothing to retrieve for her part— her former partner— _for now_, she amended in her head. Her nerves were frayed; she couldn't be certain, but she may have sworn that there had been a small blue water glass on Carlton's stand— that morning she was here with other officers, after Lassiter failed to show up for work— without calling, without any word. Looking over the spot, she could swear— she went towards the stand, tracing her fingers over a water ring that had been left by the glass. So, it had been there.

_Maybe he washed it. He has been here all alone, under house arrest,_ she reminded herself. Biting her lip, she turned from the table and slid open the closet door, trying to figure out, again, what would be best for him to wear when he finally left the hospital. She selected a pair of black slacks, a powder blue dress shirt she had admired him in— remembering how it matched his eyes— and a black suit jacket. She pushed some shirts aside and found where he kept his ties, and chose a blue one, a little darker than the shirt.

Juliet wondered how he would feel about this— not just that she was here in his apartment, but here in his bedroom, touching his clothing. She felt a slight flush; but she wholly regarded Carlton as her friend. She hoped that if she were ever in the hospital and in need of clothing, he would go to her place and get something of hers— familiar, something her body felt comfortable in. She shook her head to dispel trivial thoughts. Juliet went to his dressers, opening the drawers until she came across undergarments. She wasn't as careful selecting these; she reached in without looking for socks and boxers, grabbing a few pairs of each and tossing them towards the pile of clothes she had left on the bed.

_Shoes,_ she thought. Bending down to retrieve a pair of Carlton's shoes from the floor, Juliet felt her nose twitch, and then her eyes were just as suddenly wet. She stood up quickly, the pair of black dress shoes clutched in one hand, the other hand wiping her eyes. _You have to stop this, _she told herself firmly. _You can't help either of them if you're an emotional mess._

Juliet was careful not to stay too long. She still had another stop to make before she went back to the station; though she had already been told it was forbidden. "I don't turn my back on my friends," Juliet said aloud, and had to swallow a mouthful of tears as soon as she realized that for a long time, she had.

* * *

After Lassiter had finished half of the ice chips, he felt an uncomfortable fullness in his bladder. He worked the word out his mouth until Henry understood. "Do you want me to get a nurse?" he asked. Lassiter looked unsure, but Henry pushed the call button and Susan, the nurse who had been there yesterday with the compress, appeared about a minute later. Henry explained to her.

"Of course," the nurse said. She smiled at Lassiter. "It's so good to see you awake, Detective." Lassiter watched her but wore no expression on his face. She pressed a lever on the bed, releasing the rail, and eased Lassiter's bed up carefully so he was nearly in a sitting position. Henry backed from the bed, giving them room.

"Do you want me to wait outside?" Henry asked, addressing Lassiter more than the nurse, who was just starting to peel the sheets from Lassiter's legs.

"Do you think you can stand?" Susan asked Lassiter before turning to smile at Henry. "You're fine where you are, Mr. Spencer." She moved the IV stand, which was still administering painkillers and vital fluids, so Lassiter would have room to stand up.

Henry flinched, catching sight of some long blue bruises on Lassiter's shins. He felt anger tightening his jaw. He watched Lassiter try to stand; his knees shook. He managed two steps before his knees started to buckle.

Standing was a harder task than he'd realized. His legs were stiff; the soles of his feet tingled. Almost immediately upon becoming upright, Carlton felt so lightheaded he was certain he would faint. The room swirled for a few uncomfortable seconds, then he realized there was an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Carefully, he turned his head to the left and saw that Henry was staring back with worry. "You okay?" he asked, tightening his grip.

"Yes," Lassiter said, surprised that the word was there, soft, but in his voice. He saw relief flood Henry's face.

"If you don't mind, Susan," Henry said to the nurse, who was on Lassiter's other side with the IV stand, "I can help him." Lassiter was embarassed, but was also grateful. Henry didn't seem at all bothered or judgmental that he had almost collapsed.

Susan nodded. "All right. I'll change the sheets then," she said. She went to the small bathroom at the front of the room and turned on the light, then left to get clean sheets.

Henry walked Lassiter to the small bathroom, and then went to the window where he'd taken the call from Shawn's kidnapper to wait. While he was there, he heard the nurses return and strip the bed, then quickly tuck in the new sheets. "Good as new," Susan said and nodded once at Henry before she left.

Inside the bathroom, Lassiter washed his hands and stared at the garish image of his face under the dim fluorescent light. Even with most of the cuts and bruises covered with bandages, he still looked awful. He remembered what Henry had said earlier about him having scared a lot of people; now he understood why. Lassiter got the unwelcome flash of Marte's face inches from his as he held Lassiter by the wrists, pulling him up on his toes. "No," Lassiter breathed, feeling his face flush. He grabbed the underside of the sink's basin to steady himself; he was reminded of that night Spencer picked him off the floor and pressed his hands against the coolness of the island. _Spencer. God. What have I done? _Lassiter shook his head slowly. _I'm sorry,_ he thought. _I'll find you, kid. I promise. Somehow._

Standing wasn't so bad; but he realized he'd been holding his breath. As soon as he released it, he felt pain climb each rib. He didn't dare to get a look at them; instead, he clutched his left arm around his chest. A wave of dizziness hit him suddenly; Lassiter let himself sink to his knees. _I have to get out of here, _he thought, feeling of wave of pain starting in his head, in spite of the painkillers. He recalled the memories he had directly before waking, and then the one of Cybil dragging him away from Max Sweets' corpse. He'd been yelling out that Sweets' needed help; he'd been trying to stop up the bleeding— even though Lassiter now realized that he'd known then that Sweets was beyond help. It was a horrible way to die, regardless if Sweets had unwittingly helped his kidnappers frame him for murder— by becoming the victim. Lassiter knew he was going to be sick.

He wretched on the floor, remembering bits and pieces— strikingly clear, of watching Cybil aim his gun at close range to Sweets' neck and then pull the trigger; somehow, he was far enough away to dodge splatter, but it didn't make any second of it less horrifying. It was nothing like being engaged in a shoot out with armed suspects; this had been first degree murder, and he'd witnessed it. He remembered, suddenly, Cybil telling him firmly— an order— to stay put, to not cry out, while he took care of Sweets.

Lassiter pressed his left hand to his mouth but removed it instantly, pain jarring his split lip. He'd started to shake. _They have Shawn._ Notte, Cybil, Marte, Donia— this mysterious Mr. Bernise—_ they just took him._ _Like they just took me._ Sweat poured out of his skin; soaking him. And Shawn knew, just as well as he did, who they were and what they had done. Somehow, they had learned that Lassiter remembered many dangerous things— and perhaps that they were also planning on going to the cops with this new information. "They're not going to let him go," Lassiter whispered to the small room. He eased back on his heels, pain spiking up and down his ribs. The tender bruises on his legs ached pressed against the cold tile floor. He held his left arm around his chest again, linking his hands together, shivering.

A loud pounding on the door startled him. "Carlton!" Henry's voice called out. "Are you all right?" The knocks continued; Lassiter was almost far enough away in his memories that he could almost pretend they weren't there, until Henry demanded sharply, "Open this door, now!"

Lassiter winced. He leaned forward, careful not to touch the vomit and popped the lock open on the door. Henry yanked the door open and froze. His anger changed to a stunned concern. "Jesus," he muttered, stepping over the vomit so he could get close enough to help Lassiter to his feet.

"I'm sorry," Lassiter whispered, Henry barely making out the apology over the rustle of getting Lassiter upright.

"Just— just take it easy," Henry muttered. "I've got you." He eased Lassiter out of the room, keeping a grip on his shoulder in case the younger man's knees should give out. Henry was careful not let the IV stand drag in the puddle, walked Lassiter back to the bed and got him settled. He ducked out to let someone know about the mess then returned, standing behind the chair he'd been sitting in for the past few days. Lassiter was soaked with sweat; Henry noticed he was fighting tears and his face was pinched into a grimace. Carlton hadn't offered any explanation, but Henry knew— just as he had known that it was Shawn's muffled voice on the phone— that Carlton was trying to hold something in— something he should be telling him. Anyone could argue that Lassiter could just be holding back because he'd just come out of a two day forced sleep with his throat sore from the arms that were around it, holding it closed. But Henry knew that this was only a convenient excuse. He knew outright fear when he saw it, and he'd seen it on every inch of Lassiter's face when he'd opened that bathroom door. Henry now understood why Shawn had taken a protective stance towards the detective, in spite of how much the two men angered or annoyed each other.

A janitor appeared with a mop and disinfectant; Henry noticed a faint blush appear on Lassiter's skin. He stared at the ceiling then turned his head away. Henry went over the conversation with Gus again. According to what Lassiter had divulged to Shawn and him, Lassiter had been drugged and then kidnapped from his apartment. Then when he turned up nearly two days later, on Leadbetter Beach, he was disoriented and missing the memories of the time since his abduction. In the hospital, he'd explained to Vick what he remembered . . . and Vick failed to believe him. Then, that night, a strange man had come into his room and scared the bejesus out of him, and apparently had hurt him enough to sprain his wrist. The following morning, Lassiter had discovered a set of duplicate keys and a note on his bedside table. The keys were copies of his own, for his apartment and his car. No longer feeling safe in the hospital, he had run. And that was only the beginning.

Henry rationalized that everything Gus had told him sounded like tall tales, but he also knew that that adage about truth being stranger than fiction was often more than accurate. _Hadn't Karen wondered, even for a moment, how Lassiter could have sprained his wrist?_ If Lassiter had fed her some line about falling on it climbing out of first story window, then he must have already known she wasn't going to believe him if he told her the truth. _Hadn't Gus said that Lassiter had tried to tell her about the stranger? And what had been Vick's response?_

"Anger," Gus had said. "He said she practically screamed at him to stop lying to her." Gus had also said that while Lassiter had tried to tell her, he'd experienced a memory where someone told him something bad was going to happen if he talked to the police. "From the way he made it sound," Gus had said, "the memory kind of threw him. Like he'd gotten so scared he started tripping over his words— sounding incoherent. She probably had no idea what to make of it. Not that I'm defending her," Gus added dully. "I guess I just saw it from her point of view for a long time— it was really just too easy to accept that Lassiter had lost his mind. That he was trying to cover up some crime. But the whole time he's been panicked and paranoid— Shawn was right. I saw that woman outside his apartment— she was watching Lassiter. And then there was that locksmith, that Lassiter didn't call— right there inside of his place when Juliet's new partner brought him to his apartment." Gus shivered. "The guy was right there, in Lassiter's face. It's really no wonder he was having trouble getting his words out."

Then Gus had gone on to explain a little about what Rohypnol did and its possible side effects. "More than likely, they gave it to him so they'd be assured he wasn't going to wake up while they were abducting him. But I honestly don't know what may have been in that syringe, or what effect it may have had."

Henry started pacing. Lassiter's head was still turned away. He wasn't sure if the younger man had fallen asleep or was wrestling with something that he didn't want Henry to see.

"Are you all right?" Henry finally asked quietly. Lassiter moved his head slightly, so Henry hoped he could hear what he was about to say. "Listen . . . if you're not, you need to tell me. I'm on your side, kid." Henry was frustrated; Lassiter's head was still turned away.

"See, the theory right now is that, because you called Shawn during your attack, the bastard stole your cell phone and used it to find Shawn, and then abducted him. It sounds like bullshit— and a stretch. I think you know the real reason why that creep worked you over and then grabbed Shawn."

Lassiter turned his head sharply, holding Henry's eyes for a moment, then he squirmed in bed. He did know a reason why— he and Shawn were both supposed to be kept quiet. They couldn't go to the police now, tell them what they'd learned. At least, Carlton knew that he couldn't. Not while Shawn was missing. _If they hurt him— god._ Lassiter felt a rush of anger that left him hollowed out._ If they hurt him, what could he do about it from here? _

Henry had said that he was on Lassiter's side; _why had he said that? Was it just a trick?_ _Was Henry going to run to Vick first thing if he opened his mouth?_ His fingers twitched, he felt a rush of blood in his ears. _No. _He couldn't risk it. Vick knew about Spencer's abduction and was investigating it. That was already police involvement; his face flushed violently.

"What's wrong with you?" Henry demanded, shaking him out of his thoughts. He'd stopped pacing and was back in the chair. Lassiter stared at Henry but couldn't coax any words to his tongue. "Dammit, Carlton," Henry muttered, shaking his head. "I know you're scared." Henry grabbed his arm when he started to turn his head. "You need to listen to me. I want to help you. Shawn was helping you; now Shawn's the one who needs help. Though I see you aren't out of the woods yet. Can you trust me, like you trusted Shawn?"

Lassiter's eyes gleamed. His lips parted; he had honestly no idea what he should say. He was surprised when two small words popped out of his mouth. "My fault."

Henry crossed his arms. "Knock that off, right now." Lassiter stared back with a question in his features. "You— Gus— blaming yourselves. Hell, if Shawn was in the room now he'd blame himself that you'd been attacked. I know he blamed himself for Gus's arrest. You have to stop. It's not your fault. Don't you think my son would tell you that if he were here instead of me?"

Lassiter gazed at Henry, obviously stunned.

Henry ran a hand across his face and took a deep breath. If Carlton wasn't going to talk, he had to tell the kid what he knew. "Look, I—" He paused when he heard the door open.

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Spencer." Lassiter closed his eyes. Henry turned his head and stood when he saw Juliet enter Carlton's room. "How is he?"

Henry saw she was carrying a pile of neatly folded clothes and a pair of shoes. "The same," Henry sighed. He shot a look at Lassiter. "He's resting. What are those?"

"Oh, clean clothes for—" she gestured, throwing Carlton a slightly watery glance, but managing to keep the water from her tone. "I'm not sure how long he'll be here, but I know he doesn't have anything to—" She paused; a tiny blush crept across her cheeks. "They cut off his shirt in the apartment, and I'm assuming they did the same with—" She stopped again, shaking her head. "I just wanted him to have these."

"Okay," Henry said. "I can take them."

Juliet seemed to not to notice she was still holding them; Henry eased them from her grasp and slipped them into one of the drawers. "I'll just be outside."

Juliet nodded distractedly. She sank into the chair that Henry had just vacated, looking over Lassiter with worry tugging at her features. "Carlton, god. I don't know if you can hear me. I've been trying to be stoic— like you, but I—" She reached out and squeezed his left hand. "I know, that if you were well, you give me some kind of hell for this— but, dammit, I had to come and see you. The Chief told me I couldn't— but I've been so worried. Everyone has." She took in some quick breaths, trying to keep from getting too emotional. "I'm so angry at you— how dare you scare me like that." She sighed. "It's not your fault— I know. When we got your apartment and found you like—" Juliet took a sharp intake of breath and squeezed his hand harder. "Please don't ever scare me like that again, okay?" she pleaded softly. "I don't know if you know this, but you've been a good source of strength for me through the years." She pressed her palm against his. "You'd probably laugh at me right now if you could, but I— I hope you can take in some of my strength and use it to get well. It's recycled strength, I guess. But Carlton, I respect you. You're my partner, and my friend." She choked on a small laugh. "I'm sorry— I probably sound so weepy and girlish to you." Juliet stared intently at his face, willing his eyes to open.

"And then, there's Shawn," she continued after a moment. "We haven't heard a word from whomever took him—" _Dammit_. She felt herself on the verge of tears again, and tried to swallow them. "I promise I'm going to find the bastard who did this to you— and lock him up for good." She gave his hand another good squeeze, and got up. "You rest— get well. That's your main job. Everyone is— we need you back." She leaned towards his face and whispered in his ear, "I don't believe you're a killer, and once you're well, we'll figure it out together, okay?" Some tears fell directly from her eyes to his cheek. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, and then she was gone.

Lassiter, feigning sleep, heard every word she said. He was touched, especially since it seemed she was risking a reprimand or worse if Vick caught her here. He felt guilty for deceiving her, but honestly had had no idea what to say to her when she'd been in the room. He turned his head from the door when he heard the door open again and Henry's returning gait a few minutes later.

_I'm way too bad,_ he thought. _I'm undeserving of this— good people, risking so much— O'Hara, Spencer, Guster, now Henry— why should they want to help me?_ He'd found himself wincing a little as he listened to O'Hara— she did sound slightly girlish, but she also sounded angry. Had he ever heard her use the word "bastard" before? _I'm sorry,_ he thought as she'd spoken. _I didn't mean to scare you. _How many times had he said that to Spencer, who wore a white face, after he'd passed out in front of him?

_"I don't really believe you're a killer," _O'Hara had whispered in his ear. Then, he heard Spencer's voice, which seemed to be emerging from both just yesterday and long ago: _"I knew you weren't a killer, Lassie." _

How long had O'Hara believed this? From the beginning, or was it since he'd been beaten? No, it had to be before that— Lassiter recalled Spencer telling him at some point that Juliet had a wavering opinion of the case. Even Vick— despite her strong opposition of his _alleged_ innocence— Spencer had said she _"didn't really know what to believe"_.

"Carlton." He turned his head towards the voice and waited.

Henry paused. "We need to talk— but first, I need you to listen." He started with the ransom call, which came almost two days ago, and then worked his way back to what Gus had told him. "That's as much as I know— seems like a lot, but I have a sense there's a lot more I need to hear from you."

Lassiter listened to Henry partly in shock. He heard Henry's words as if they were coming to him from a great distance, then piercing the fog of his subconscious. The recounting of it all left him breathless. Did this mean he could trust Henry, even in the reluctant way he'd come to trust Shawn? And Shawn ransomed— for those documents that illustrated the drug in the glass had been volatile and dangerous— forced upon him.

But for all Henry had said, not once had Lassiter heard him say he believed that Lassiter was innocent of murder, or that Henry actually believed any of his memories— his abduction, the stranger— Notte— leering at him in the middle of the night, making threats. Or was he supposed to read between the lines? His head felt fuzzy.

"You want some more ice chips?" Henry asked, noticing Carlton looked even paler than before.

"Yes," Lassiter mumbled. He coughed.

Henry reached for the cup on the stand and noticed that most were melted. "I'll be right back," he told Lassiter.

"Can I tell him?" Lassiter said aloud to the empty room, as if asking for its permission. His voice sounded so raspy; like the afternoon when he'd woken walking in the sand. "Can I trust him?" His voice was gaining strength. Maybe there was hope.

_* * *_

Shawn's muscles were shaking. He had his head against his chest, squeezing his eyes against the pain. Even though his stomach was empty, he thought he was going to be sick. Which was ironic, because part of the reason he had the shakes was due to the fact he hadn't eaten anything since the morning he'd been kidnapped. It also didn't help that he'd been bound since then too; they hadn't taken him to the bathroom, though he strangely didn't have the urge to go. It was probably because they'd given him so little water. His lips felt cracked and dry, and since the last time he'd dozed and awoken, he'd tasted blood on them.

When Donia appeared, he wasn't even sure if she were really there. She was holding a camera with a big smile on her face— that was, until she really took in his. He couldn't be really sure he saw what he thought he saw in her eyes, but a moment later she vanished. She returned with Notte. Shawn looked up with a flash of terror— and then a picture was snapped of his face. He blinked angrily and sleepily at the bright light, and then let his head dip back to his chest.

_* * *_

Henry watched Lassiter tilt the cup towards his mouth, catching a few chips at a time. The entire time he'd spoken, he noticed the younger man's incredulous frozen look. Henry wasn't certain if it was a different kind of fear, or if it was something else. So far, Carlton hadn't offered any word of explanation— not for what Henry witnessed when he opened the bathroom door, or any comment for what Henry had learned from Gus. Henry did notice panic come over Lassiter's face when he went over the demand from Shawn's kidnapper.

He started to feel the strain of minimal sleep and the stress of not knowing if his words were really sinking in. He sighed, checked his watch, and stood up. It was almost 6:30; he'd have at least a couple more hours here before the staff came in to remind him visiting hours were over.

"I'm going to head to the cafeteria for some coffee, okay?" Henry told Lassiter, who looked tired.

" 'kay," Lassiter mumbled. He closed his eyes.

Henry opened the door and stopped in the hallway, where a few people were milling around— nurses, staff members, some patients with family. He tried to remember which way was the fastest to find the elevators. He took a few steps in one direction when he heard a door open. He flicked his eyes toward the sound and experienced what he could only compare to a punch to the gut. There was a stranger entering Lassiter's room. The man didn't see him but Henry got a quick glimpse of him from the side. The man was in blue scrubs; however, Henry had a prickly sensation that he wasn't a doctor or a nurse or even a janitor.

He remembered what Susan, the nurse, had said yesterday— Lassiter hadn't had any visitors other than himself, Juliet, and Vick. Who was this man? Henry knew it couldn't be Lassiter's father since he had passed away years before.

The man had a brown mustache, a touch of gray on his temples, and a pale scar under his right eye, which stood out against his leathery brown skin. Henry glanced at the floor and glimpsed that the man in scrubs wore expensive looking gray snakeskin loafers. _Okay, definitely not a hospital worker._ The door swung closed and Henry pretended to walk away. He only took a few steps before pivoting and going back to Lassiter's room. He opened the door quietly and hovered near the bathroom which was a blind spot to eavesdrop.

"Well, Detective, I see you are awake. How unfortunate for you," the man's voice said smoothly. An older voice, sinister and measured. Henry bit the inside of his cheek. This man's voice was very familiar . . . and as Henry listened, he realized why.

Henry heard Lassiter's loud gasp and had to stop himself from stepping out. Lassiter made a muffled sound then the man said, "Now you don't want to do that. No one will help you anyway. Especially since we now haveh the one and only person invested in clearing your name."

Henry felt cold fear. Lassiter protested, still muffled. "Detective," the man said in a low growl, "I will remove my hand."

Lassiter took some quick shallow breaths before managing a bold demand in a raspy voice. "Don't you dare hurt him. He's just an innocent kid."

The stranger laughed softly with an edge. "Hard that I would believe, but once, so were you. You will not alert the police—" Lassiter choked, as if gasping for air, but didn't cry out. "You will not tell a soul— if there is anyone left who gives a damn about you—" Lassiter choked again, and Henry suspected his throat was being squeezed. "—About this encounter. Do exactly what we say— or we'll keep him. And you'll never find his body."

Henry had to bunch his fists and steel himself against the floor. This stranger could only be talking about his son. He got a surge of anger, then he heard Lassiter groan. "Just a little reminder," the man sneered.

When Lassiter spoke again, his voice was thick, as if he were fighting back tears. "Why couldn't you just leave him alone? If I'm the one— why don't you just hurt me?"

The stranger chuckled again. "Does this not hurt you, Detective? To know that your police friends do not believe you? To know what happens to these innocents who helped you? To them, we can do much worse." Lassiter let out a straggled sound. "If they had not helped you to recall events, you would already be— right where we want you. We pressed the blood to your hands— you should already haveh fallen."

Henry was wide eyed, listening. He had to cover his mouth with both of his hands.

"Just let him go." Lassiter's voice was a little stronger, louder. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll— confess to the murder. I'll—"

"He stays with us, Detective. Apparently, his friend copied those documents, though we are in possession of the originals. We know our young friend gave these copies to his father— an appropriate ransom, don't you think?" Lassiter choked again. "No one will ever believe you are innocent, Detective. You will do well to keep what you have remembered to yourself— or what we will do to him— ah, a slow, agonizing death— exactly what you deserve, he will experience." Lassiter made a gurgling sound; it was horrible to listen to but Henry made himself stay still. "_Facilis descensus Averno_— you will know Hell with no escape." Lassiter's breathing intensified, and he emitted muffled sounds, then another straggled cry. _"Sepolte vive_," the stranger growled menacingly.

Henry knew he had to step in and help Lassiter. He eased himself out of door, and walked down a few doors before turning around. He pushed Lassiter's door open so it banged against the bathroom door with a loud thunk. "Can you believe the cafeteria was all out of morning blend? I mean, I know it's not morning—" he complained conversationally as he entered, and wasn't surprised in the least when the stranger gracefully pushed past him and out the door. For a few seconds, he considered going after the man, but he thought better of it. His best hope to find Shawn was in this room. Henry was unnerved to see how pale Lassiter's skin had become, and to see the detective holding his left hand against his cheek, which was bleeding, as if sliced open by a sharpened blade. Henry noticed right away that Lassiter's neck was a splotchy red. The younger man was visibly shaken. He didn't look up right away.

_#_

_Met him in a hotel_

_beneath ground_

_Tell me that he's missing_

_Tell me this is one for_

_Lollipop Gestapo_

_#_

Notte pressed the photograph into his hand while cutting his face. The note was taped to the back of the Polaroid, as if the photograph itself wasn't enough. Lassiter turned the picture over with a shaky hand, as if what he had seen first off had been incorrect. Date stamped to today, it was Spencer with terror in his eyes, gagged, and tied to a chair. He looked pale and dirty, there was a nasty bruise under his right eye, with blood caked in a corner of his mouth. But he was alive, and that was the best he was going to get for now. Lassiter steadied his breath, shamed but helpless. He wanted to get out of the bed right now and go look for Spencer, but he had no idea where they'd taken him. He was studying the note when Henry came back. Lassiter dropped the picture down on the sheets and pressed his hand over it, partially obscuring it from view.

Henry sat down in the chair next to the bed. He crossed his arms, fighting the urge to start yelling. "Carlton, what happened to your face?"

Lassiter sighed softly but didn't speak. He had been hoping the cut didn't look as bad as it felt. He needed to figure something out; everything was such a mess because of him. _Should he go to the Chief and confess? But what if he did and they didn't let Spencer go? What if they— _Henry grabbed his wrist suddenly. Lassiter struggled, instinctively thinking his wrist was going to be twisted, but Henry was only interested in the small square underneath his fingers. He had it in his hands before Lassiter could protest. Henry let go and scanned the note briefly before flipping the square over.

Henry's face drained of its angry color. He struggled to find air and then muttered, "Shawn," with such a low keen Lassiter thought he could hear the older man's heart snap. Lassiter's face grew hot with panic; what if Notte— his kidnapper— was watching them right now? He wasn't supposed to tell anyone— would Shawn pay for his mistakes?

"Carlton, so help me god. Tell me what the hell's going on." Lassiter shook his head and was startled when Henry slapped him. Henry caught Lassiter flinch but it was too late to stop. Lassiter jerked his face towards Henry, who looked ready to hit him again if necessary. "This is my son we're talking about here," Henry said through clenched teeth. The look in Lassiter's eyes made Henry very uncomfortable in spite of his anger. Henry sat back for a second, staring at his partial hand print that was pink on Lassiter's cheek. He had no idea he'd struck that hard. He felt ashamed, but knew mere words weren't going to make it any better.

Lassiter nodded slowly. "I know." He wondered how much he could tell and still be able to protect Shawn? But then there was the way Henry was studying him— very similar, in fact, to way Shawn had over and over again when he'd insisted Lassiter needed his help. He looked at the blood on his fingertips, and swallowed hard. He hesitated. "Everything that happened is my fault," he finally admitted. His voice was low and cracked a few times. "I got your son and Guster involved in my mess, and now Guster is in jail and your son is— I wasn't supposed to tell anyone—" Lassiter was struggling with words; he turned his head from Henry, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes tight. "I tried to get Shawn to back off, but—"

"What did I tell you about that?" Henry warned, interrupting him. "Blaming yourself isn't going to do any good." He sighed. "Shawn is Shawn," Henry said firmly. "You tell him one thing and he does his own thing. Believe me, I know." He reached out and grabbed Lassiter's arm, tugging until the detective looked him in the eye. "Look, I didn't go out for coffee. That guy came in the door as I started to leave, and I stuck around because I didn't like the looks of him. I didn't want you left alone with some creep."

A bitter thin smile played on Lassiter's mouth for a second. Like son, like father.

"I heard everything, Carlton," Henry told him. "Including the creep instructing you not to tell anyone. Especially not the police." Lassiter looked back, shocked. Henry sighed. "We can't go to the police anyway— they already warned me Shawn would pay if I did."

"You know I'm not crazy, then," Lassiter said slowly, looking into Henry's eyes. "That I've been telling the truth."

Henry paused. "You're not crazy, kid," he said. "You've been wronged— like I said before, I'm going to help you. But you need to help me. Shawn needs you."

Lassiter set his face. He had an ally— ironically, another Spencer. He eyed Henry. "Maybe you should get some coffee— it's a long story."

Henry shook his head, feeling wired since the moment the stranger appeared. He handed over the cup of ice. "I'm fine. Just tell me."

"This isn't the first time he's threatened me," Lassiter began, studying the ceiling. "There was another time—"

Henry held his hand up. "Gus told me. Shit, that was the same guy?" Henry eyed Lassiter's right wrist in its sling.

"That's not all he's done." Lassiter swallowed hard. The cut on his face was minor, but it stung. As he pressed his fingers back to it, Henry seemed to realize he was still bleeding. He got up and returned a few seconds later with a wet brown paper towel.

As Lassiter held it against his cheek, Henry winced, knowing the man had cut Lassiter's face while he'd stood there, listening. "I— I apologize for not stepping in sooner." What he'd done was selfish— he'd been so concerned about Shawn, and now he regretted it. For now, Lassiter needed to be protected— and Henry knew he'd failed.

"At least— at least you know I'm not making this up. You actually heard— and saw— him." Lassiter took a deep breath. "He's one of the men who abducted me."

"He's what?" Henry's eyes bulged.

Lassiter nodded. "He is— one of them. Shawn helped me figure it out. His name is Notte."

"Carlton— from listening to him, I think he's the man I spoke to on the phone." Henry looked over the picture of Shawn, feeling sick. "How do you know his name?"

Lassiter started explaining everything, from the point where Gus's knowledge ended and on. Henry stayed silent, trying to follow all of it. He told Henry of Shawn's insistence that Roman Cavaliere was somehow involved; and how he was right.

"But this drug dealer is dead?" Henry interrupted.

Lassiter nodded. "But that's the name that Notte yelled at me in that one memory. They're convinced I wronged them somehow. I don't know why— either it's something I haven't remembered yet, or it's—" He shook his head. There just wasn't anything there. He couldn't answer it. He sighed, and explained how it would probably make more sense if Henry could read the journal he'd kept, at Shawn's request.

"What's in the journal?" Henry asked.

"Everything. Things I remembered, strange dreams, every paranoid feeling I got— names, descriptions. Shawn's observations and theories. Who really killed Max Sweets." Lassiter paused. He explained the memory he'd had prior to his waking, and then how it rehashed itself when he was in the bathroom.

"Is that why you—?" Henry gaped. Was this why Carlton had looked at him with such hollow eyes? "Where is this journal?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, crap. That's what that was." Henry shook his head slowly. "Shawn showed up three nights ago— he said he had something he wanted to add to the safe."

"He gave it to you?" Lassiter blurted out, his blue eyes going wide.

"Leather-bound, overstuffed?" Henry asked. Lassiter nodded. "All Shawn told me that it was also important— to the case he was working on involving you, and that he'd be back the next morning to pick it up." His mouth drew into a tight line. "I'm glad he trusted me with it."

Lassiter nodded. "So am I."

Henry sighed, looking at his watch. "They're going to make me leave soon." Henry stared at Lassiter; he knew Lassiter was a grown man but it was twisting his insides to leave. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning."

Lassiter looked like he was going to smile, but it changed to a grimace. "Shawn offered to guard me, that night— after he'd convinced me that we needed to go to Vick. After everything that happened." Lassiter shook his head slowly, thinking. "It was better, he didn't stay."

"But he was still abducted," Henry reminded him, "after that guy beat the hell out of you."

Lassiter grimaced again. He clenched a fist. "Martey," he murmured. "That's the guy who attacked me."

Henry worked his jaw, hearing a few cracks. "You said you remember what happened?"

"Everything." He stared at Henry. "Do you want to know?"


	21. Chapter 20: The White Knight Is

**Chapter Twenty: The White Knight Is Talking Backwards **

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Disclaimer: The information about sodium pentothal I credit to Wikipedia.

Italian Vocabulary: (Which I credit to wordreference dot com)_ La acqua _= The water; _Amato_ (masculine) = Love, beloved, "sweet one"; _E meglio che tu vada_ = You'd better go; _Come hai potuto fare una cosa del genere? = _How could you do such a thing?; _Si_ = Yes; _Caro_ (masculine) = Darling, beloved

Author's Note: I will be starting a job tomorrow that requires me to work a lovely overnight shift of 9:30 pm to 5:30 am Sun to Thurs for three weeks. Having never done a job like this before, I have no idea how it will go or how spaced out I'll be during my waking hours, but I want to let you all know that I'm not abandoning this story. (Who needs to sleep, really?) I know this update comes a little later than my other ones, but it took me a while to get all the "parts and pieces" all synched up. And I have been writing for the next chapters as well, tweaking and editing and such, so I hope they'll be even more fleshed out by the time I post. Thanks so much to everyone for reading.

Again, thank you to all my reviewers. I really can't say it enough— thank you. :) I so appreciate all of you! :D Thanks so much for your feedback and wonderful words.

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* * *

After Henry got home and checked the house and locked all the doors, he got out the loose pieces of paper from his pocket where he'd written Lassiter's account of his attack. It chilled him to read them, especially since he could hear them in Lassiter's voice, recounting every horrible second. Hearing him say— "He could have easily killed me. I don't know why he was holding back, but I know he was. He told me as he choked me that 'this isn't the end'"— was almost too much. Henry was sick with worry. The picture proved that Shawn was alive, but its existence was also terrifying because it confirmed so many other fears of Henry's— and Lassiter's. The same man who'd put Lassiter in the hospital had likely left that nasty bruise on Shawn's face. It was hard to tell from the picture's flat surface if Shawn had been harmed in any other way; other than the blood on the side of his mouth, he only seemed scared. But that was enough.

_God, Shawn, I wish I knew where you were. I'd come and get you right away._ Henry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He went to the safe and retrieved the journal. He slipped the loose sheets into the two pages after the last entry, and then sank onto the couch to read. He'd told Lassiter he would read it and then the next morning, they could go over anything that needed an extra explanation.

Before he'd left Lassiter, one of the nurses had come for rounds. Henry flushed, partly because there was still a light pink mark on Lassiter's cheek where Henry had hit him, but the nurse seemed more concerned about the cut and how it could have gotten there. As she started to throw a suspicious glance towards Henry, Lassiter stammered that it was accidental. He told a different version of what actually happened— though it reached a little farther into the past of a few days.

"I— I thought he— the man— in my apartment— was"— his breath came out in little huffs— "he had his arm around my neck," Lassiter said, his voice low, staring at the ceiling. "I was trying to scratch his arm— I thought I was. But then I realized where I was and that— that it was my own face."

"Poor dear," the nurse, an older woman, mumbled with concern. She left to get some antiseptic and a clean bandage.

Henry stared at Lassiter, his eyes wide. The parts that had been true— he only fibbed about scratching his own skin— Lassiter had stated with a thin, barely contained fear. It was no wonder why the nurse didn't question him more— Henry felt a little sick. He wondered how long Lassiter had been telling everyone that his mysterious bruises or sprains were self-inflicted. Carlton had told him— and he was also reading it— that whenever he remembered something that had happened, it came at him with a vividness that most normal memories— shades of the actual events— didn't have. Sometimes he experienced a violent panic attack, sometimes he passed out. Disorientation often accompanied these— and a crushing fear, sometimes so intense he had a difficult time catching his breath.

"That doesn't sound normal," Henry murmured to the empty house. He knew Lassiter had suffered much, and that it didn't help that his abductors were still hanging around with their stalking and their threats— those extra keys, their tricks, anything that unnerved him. Henry found himself understanding more of Shawn's motives— Shawn would recognize serious trouble when he saw it, and this cop had nearly been engulfed by it; his true self barely visible through a sea of murky panic. If Lassiter had been alone through all this— he would have already convinced himself he'd lost his mind completely. Henry felt a burn of pride for Shawn; then he frowned, the worry for his son's condition edging in. Lassiter's problems were, sadly, a welcome distraction from thinking endlessly about Shawn and how he was being treated. He'd left Lassiter the picture with the excuse that he'd want to study the note to make sense of it, but in reality, Henry didn't want a picture of his son like that in his house.

No matter how much they clashed, Henry never wanted to imagine anything bad ever happening to his son. Usually, Shawn steered clear of him during his PI cases, as if knowing Henry didn't want to know how many times Shawn had had a gun held to his head or any other dangerous things that he'd somehow managed to talk his way out of. For all of their differences, their fights, Henry wished Shawn was here right now, exchanging heated words with him. Just to hear his voice, know he was safe. Shawn was past thirty, but it didn't matter. In that picture, he looked ten years old again. God. Henry couldn't get the image out of his brain.

Looking at the journal, he read that Lassiter remembered being bound and gagged as well. He hated to picture that— Lassiter helpless, in the hands of kidnappers— the same who had hurt and intimidated him today— the same who now had Shawn. Mostly he prayed that he would get Shawn back unharmed— but it also nagged him that Shawn could come back the same way as Lassiter— skittish, constantly afraid— Henry closed his eyes for a few moments. Getting Shawn home safe was the only thing that mattered. Anything else— anything else could be worked on. Fixed. He had to hold onto that.

Henry turned the pages in stunned silence. He had the impulse to march down to Karen right now and throw this on her desk and then dare her not to believe wholeheartedly in Lassiter's problems. _God. The things this poor man went through— alone,_ Henry realized— it was really no wonder why Lassiter was paranoid and terrified and reluctant to open up. _Somehow, Shawn had been able to help him— shit, his kid was suddenly, in his eyes, like some kind of saint. Not that he'd ever admit it— unless Shawn walked through that door right now, completely unharmed. No dice._ Henry sighed.

Henry wondered about this mysterious drug that had been in the syringe. It was very possible that whatever this was could be the reason why Lassiter had obeyed orders; but, was there really a drug with such properties? He sighed again. There was sodium pentothal— truth serum, a psychoactive, with properties for sedation and induction, which interfered with judgment. But this— it seemed much more potent. According to Vick's assessment of Lassiter's blood test results, his blood was clean, free of drugs. _But what if it wasn't? What if it was some horrible lie or trick? Was there another explanation?_ Henry wondered. Despite everything Henry had seen, he couldn't imagine fear alone would be the cause of Lassiter following orders given by kidnappers and killers. And in all of Lassiter's memories, it seemed that the brandishing of weapons of any kind were scarce. _Maybe he'd been threatened again and again with death; but why hadn't he remembered that? Even the way his mind had protected itself— hiding his witnessing of the murder in other gruesome scenes, like showing his elbow coming apart— why hadn't it conjured up some—?_

_But Lassiter's a cop. He's used to guns, knives, weapons. He wasn't— he wouldn't be,_ Henry thought— that scared _of a gun, because he'd know how to handle himself._ Henry shook his head. _But he had been kidnapped_. Henry shook his head again. _But he's a cop. He had that training— training and stress management and how to handle yourself should you end up in a hostage situation. Though being a hostage could be alarming, even for a cop._ But Lassiter's fear, even at recalling a small part of his recent attack, could be enough to floor him, to daze him so completely that he couldn't think clearly, get his words out, that he couldn't hear someone pounding on a door half a foot in front of his head._ This had to be something else._

* * *

Lassiter studied the picture of Spencer— he hoped the kid was okay. He looked— he was alive, scared, bruised, dirty— but still there. _But he needs to be_ here, Lassiter thought. He was so pissed that Notte and the others had actually gone after the kid; it wasn't right. Were they suddenly so cowardly that they had to pick on Spencer instead of him? Granted, Spencer had been relentless to prove his innocence— god, he wished it hadn't come to this. No matter what, he promised to get Spencer back in one piece— even if it meant he'd have to sacrifice his life— the straggled remains of it, anyway, barely one full offering— to do it. He knew he owed Spencer a lot— more than could ever be repaid by a thank you or a grateful look. In fact, he admitted now Spencer's persistence and belief in him were likely the only reasons he hadn't completely given in— given up. He still didn't understand why Spencer had offered his help— especially after the numerous times Lassiter had pushed him away. _It's because he knew. He knows when people are in trouble._ Lassiter sighed. That still didn't mean he believed Spencer was a psychic— but he was starting to believe that Spencer was a good friend. And now, Henry— yet another Spencer he didn't directly ask for help from— but was able to perceive, outside of cuts and bruises on his face, that something else was wrong. _It was just— good detective work,_ Lassiter thought. The Spencers had perspective that the Vick and the others didn't seem to have.

_But Spencer annoys you,_ a small voice muttered somewhere in his head. _I know, he does, but he gives a damn if I live or die._ Lassiter recalled Shawn telling him that night that he didn't think he was doing a very good job of protecting Lassiter— but he was. He'd offered to stay— to look out for him. Lassiter had felt embarrassed; part of him still wanted to believe he could handle everything on his own. And now Henry, just as worried as Shawn had been— nearly unable to leave him alone. It may have something to do with the fact that both Spencers had seen his aggressors— and witnessed his fear, surprisingly, without much judgment. Spencer had missed many opportunities to tease and humiliate the hell out of him— he felt himself flush. Maybe he had misjudged the type of person Spencer really was— good at heart.

_You knew that,_ he told himself. _You're only lying in this hospital bed because Spencer got help for you— otherwise, you might have—_ "Drown in my own blood," Lassiter muttered aloud, feeling his fingers start to tingle. He couldn't remember which of the swirling voices had told him this when he'd first awoken— if it was Vick or O'Hara— or maybe another voice during his partial consciousness. It was too similar to— _Cavaliere. _That was the one word Notte had snarled in his ear— the word Lassiter remembered before Marte broke in his door. He shivered, shrugging the thin sheets over his arms. How could this Notte possibly be connected to the Cavaliere family? And what could either family want from him?

He tried to go over the note again. There was only one line that seemed clear: '_Tell me that he's missing . . . '_ Spencer was missing. The rest . . . it made his head hurt to try to think through it. That line was the one that hurt most— stabbing at him with a knife-like guilt. Lassiter recalled Henry's insistence to stop blaming this on himself; funny, because he had said that both before and after he knew exactly how Lassiter was involved in Shawn's disappearance.

* * *

Shawn awoke slowly, gaining conscious as a hand gently stroked his hair. He looked around blearily, feeling dizzy enough to pass out again. He groaned, turning his head delicately. This nightmare was never ending. _This is what you get for helping people,_ a little voice sneered, but Shawn really couldn't place it— was it inside his head or was it external, spoken by one of the malicious people holding him against his will?

"There now, isn't that better?" Donia asked once Shawn's eyes were open.

"Is what better?" Shawn asked dryly. His tongue actually ached, possessing the sensation of being cracked. He moved it around his mouth, hoping to moisten it, and slowly realized the gag had been taken off. He moved his stiff fingers; pain inched up his wrists, his elbows and struck him like a blow between his shoulder blades. He shifted his knees, waiting for his joints to pop to offer the smallest relief, but they refused.

Donia had pressed something to his lips, perhaps the lip of a bowl. She tilted it and cold broth flooded his mouth, its high salt content making him wince. Shawn swallowed some of it but choked on the rest; some spilled out of his mouth. Donia seemed to be waiting; Shawn's eyes stung as he coughed. "Water," he pleaded.

"Oh, _la acqua_?" Donia asked. "I haveh that." The bowl disappeared and a bottle of water appeared. She held it to his lips and he drank, swallowing some mouthfuls of air after he sucked down half its contents. She pulled the bottle away while he gulped. His stomach felt cold; he hoped none of this was going to come back up.

"Shh, shh," Donia hushed, petting Shawn's hair. Shawn wished he had the strength to yell at her. He'd dropped his head, feeling hot wetness slip from his eyes. _What are they going to do with me? _He looked up too fast and the room spun, ugly dull browns and grays above his head. _Oh, crap._ He opened his mouth to the side of the chair and some liquid dripped out. He grunted with a helpless frustration, squeezing his eyes closed tight. "Please," he whispered. "Untie me."

"I cannot," Donia told him simply. She moved the bottle of water back to his mouth. He wanted to refuse, but he parted his lips and drank greedily. There was a sour taste in his mouth that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get rid of. "We did not want to hurt you, _amato_. You should haveh stayed away."

Shawn was torn for an appropriate response. He wanted to make a sarcastic joke but he felt his head spinning again. He didn't want to plead because he knew he'd get nowhere. He was stuck; he was in need of a rescue. _But who? It seemed if Jules knew where he was, the police would have been here by now. How long had it been? Years? No, it was only days— a few days. But it felt like forever._ Shawn's heart thudded again; he'd done his best to keep his terror at bay, but he couldn't anymore. If his father showed up with the ransom, both of them would probably be killed— but why hadn't they killed him already, if they were going to? And now Donia mumbling this cryptic crap about not wanting to hurt him. Shawn's head was too fuzzy to think it through all the way. "Drink this," Donia said softly. She offered more of the broth, feeding it to Shawn slowly, waiting in between mouthfuls to be certain it wasn't coming back up.

"I would not haveh you die," Donia said, then after a pause, "This is not whata I want." She shook her head slowly.

Shawn was too scared to ask her to explain herself further. The young woman had a faraway look to her eyes. She sighed. "I know my father—" She shook her head again. "But should I rule in this world, I should keep him."

She didn't say anymore, but Shawn wondered if the "him" she'd mentioned was Lassiter. _Lassie. He had failed— Lassiter was in even more danger now._ Shawn closed his eyes. "You cut him."

"Ah?" Donia exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.

Shawn turned his head slowly. "He told me."

Her eyes were shining. She scrunched her nose up defensively. "The things he remembers." She made a tsking sound. "If we were together, he would not care."

Shawn's jaw dropped. He had to turn his eyes away. She sounded so serious. "He's not your puppet."

"He is mine," Donia countered, the pout evident in her voice. "But I— we are star crossed. It was a blessing that brought him to me."

Shawn's eyebrow shot up. She really believed in her words. Shawn had to bite his tongue hard. _Who were these people; how did they get to this way of thinking? That they could just use people, take people, do whatever they wanted without any consequences?_ Shawn winced, imaging Lassie's reaction to this. He wasn't sure if the girl herself caused him terror, or if it was the thought that she was one of them, those who had hurt and tormented him. _Though,_ he reflected, _she was pretty scary herself._ And she had joined right in, willingly it seemed, to mess with his head— so much so that Cybil, _the killer_, had scolded her for her brazenness. "It was a crime that brought him to you," Shawn snapped suddenly, turning towards her. "You can't meet a guy yourself so you have to wait till your father abducts one for you?"

The slap was loud in the room, standing out against the neat silence. Donia stood in front of him, her hand still poised in the air. Shawn was more shocked by the force of it, hard enough to turn his head. He could already feel her small hand print raising on his cheek. "How darea you speak to me this way," Donia spat. She let out a quick stream of angry Italian words.

Shawn knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he reasoned later that he'd never been good at that. "What," he heard himself say, "it isn't true?"

"Then I don't carea if you die!" Donia yelled back, her dark eyes worked up into a fury. "Die!" She grabbed the empty porcelain bowl that the broth had been in and swung it for Shawn's cheek.

Shawn yelled out, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for impact. He heard the bowl drop against the floor. Wincing, he tentatively opened one eye, then the other, and saw that one of the men had a hold of Donia's hand— and had forced her to drop the bowl before she could strike Shawn. Shawn raised his eyes slowly, wondering which one of them had rescued him from a bloody face. Notte. The breath caught in Shawn's throat. Notte pulled Donia away from him slowly, never releasing her hand. The young woman seemed to be shaking with sobs, but no sound was coming out of her. "_E meglio che tu vada_," Notte told her firmly, but without any anger to his tone. At the door, he let go of her and she disappeared.

Notte turned back to Shawn, and Shawn wished he could take steps back. Before he knew it, Notte had his hand under Shawn's chin, easing his head to the side to get a closer look at his slapped cheek. Shawn felt so confused. Donia gave him fluids because he was in obvious need, and told him if it were up to her, there would be no killing. Then she'd screamed that he should die. Now Notte was being gentle with him; Shawn shook under his hand. He knew it wasn't possible it could last. He was in for another slap or punch sooner or later. Since he couldn't move, he was a sitting duck. Why was Notte so calm? It was eerie. He hadn't spoken to Shawn or made any move to gag him; Shawn waited.

"Sometime, my daughter is overzealous," Notte muttered smugly, his back to Shawn. Shawn tensed. _How had Notte known what she was about to do? How he gotten to her in time?_ Shawn felt a chill spread across his back. He'd had this sensation before— that night he'd witnessed Donia outside sitting on Lassiter's car, staring at him and Lassiter, telling someone that the both of them knew. The first time he'd seen Donia she'd been across the street, and he hadn't gotten the best look at her face other than to note that she seemed to have an otherworldly attractiveness about her. He wondered what he had been thinking— Donia was an ugly monster.

And not just because she'd nearly scarred his face. She was dead serious what she had said about Lassiter— if she had the power, she would likely spirit him away, wholly convinced their one sided love story could work. Shawn had wondered, that first time Lassiter caught her outside, why he was so upset— she only seemed to be a little thing, airy, delicate. He had wondered about Lassiter's mental state; but now he understood that fury and demand could come in the smallest packages. She was terrifying. Nearly as terrifying as Notte— Shawn looked up, still wondering.

"The pity of a place like this," Notte mumbled, still with his back to Shawn, "is that the voice will carry." He turned. "Though I enjoy you gagged more so because your words are what cause you your trouble—"

Shawn bit his lip with a scowl. He wanted to set loose a steady stream of curses but he hated having that cloth between his teeth. It gave him that sense he'd had in the Psych office, with Marte approaching, when he couldn't gather enough of his voice together so he could yell. Without his voice, he felt helpless— even if the moment passed.

"Your words," Notte continued, his mouth dipping into a frown, "have protected him— for too long. _Come hai potuto fare una cosa del genere?_" He clenched his teeth and seemed to be fighting a fit of rage; Shawn tensed, fully expecting another slap, but Notte gained control. "I wanted nothing with you." He leered over Shawn. "But now that I haveh you, I know that it panics him. He feels responsible— as he should." Notte gave a piercing, dark look which made Shawn squirm. "And any moment he feels the slightest twinge of fear— the drug reacts."

Notte was silent for a few seconds, and Shawn took the time to try to understand what had just been said to him. _The drug reacts . . . to fear._

"It is, unfortunately, unpredictable. He is the first test—" Notte chuckled, staring into Shawn's wild eyes. "You needn't worry— we haven't any more. We would haveh to create it— my brother never wrote down any of his recipes." Shawn's tongue was thick, filling his mouth. The syringe, whatever had been in the syringe was— Notte had dosed Lassiter with something unknown and unpredictable. And—

"Any time he's scared?" Shawn asked thinly, horrified. Shawn's mind wandered back to Lassiter's reaction to what he'd read from Donia's lips; how he'd turned around to find Lassiter on the floor in a heap. He heard Lassie's words, "I just get scared" as explanation why he was near incoherent and soaked with sweat. And before that, when he heard Lassiter scream at the sink— Shawn closed his eyes. It had sounded like someone was killing him. Well, he'd been partially right— but it was happening internally rather than externally. "What is this going to do him— long term?" Shawn mumbled, staring at Notte, who stared back amusedly.

Notte scowled suddenly. "Mr. Lassiter has no long term, Mr. Spencer. As much as I would gain the slightest measure of joy from drawing out his torment by years—" Shawn gasped. "There can be no prediction made if it will remain in his system. I haveh already waited much too long." He smiled again. "It was you, Mr. Spencer, that made me realize that it was I who should carry out the act— not allow some three strikes killer to cut up his pretty face."

Shawn's mouth dropped open as far as it would go. Lassiter had said . . . wasn't that how Roman Cavaliere had died? "_His throat was a wide gash, and deep cuts had separated the skin from both eyes, his nose, and corners of his mouth_." Shawn tried to speak, but the only sounds that would come out were straggling gurgles.

Notte frowned. "You haveh tried to undermine me, Mr. Spencer. It is not appreciated." Shawn flinched when he saw Notte's leathery hand come at his face. He braced himself for a blow, but instead, Notte fingers coiled around Shawn's hair. Shawn winced, feeling the first tugs. "I haveh watched him— he is not aupposed to have any true friends." Notte shook his head. "So easily his police friends turned on him. Ah, he doesn't not deserve true friends." Notte's lip curled. "Yet, one copies test results— the other—" Notte yanked Shawn's hair until he cried out. "The other nearly convinces his police girlfriend that a mistake was made against Mr. Lassiter." Notte pulled harder. Shawn bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. "Then, he helps Mr. Lassiter retrieve all of his bad memories— the ones any other would as soon as forget."

"Those memories are important," Shawn grunted. "He remembered he wasn't a killer." Tears streamed down his face.

"You are daring, Mr. Spencer." Notte released Shawn, a strange amusement in his tone.

"You can't just— you can't just do this to people— screw with their lives because—" Shawn's voice pitched with anger, though he had no idea why he was letting himself argue with Notte— it was stupid and dangerous. "Because it suits you." He spit out some blood.

"Child, you vex me. To haveh some irksome psychic getting in my way," Notte snarled over Shawn, who looked back with anger and hatred. "I haveh waited too long— Ah." Notte paused, looking Shawn over very slowly. "Are you to wish that someone also desires your agonizing death?" Shawn shuddered and looked away. "_Si_, I think not. But you may haveh it."

_What? _Shawn thought with new shock. _No._

"Ah, he pleaded for your safety, Mr. Spencer. How I nearly—" Notte clenched his fist around the air, then after shaking it, dropped it. "Alone— it would haveh been easy to pry the light from his eyes." Notte paused. "He is alarmed, on this edge, not knowing if we haveh hurt you— he say he will confess— throw away his freedom, if only we will grant you yours."

"What?" Shawn gasped, staring back. His stomach flipped. "You've seen him— talked to him—" _Threatened him? Terrified him?_ _Since the fight? _

Notte clucked his tongue. "Ah, Marte did good work— but Mr. Lassiter is awake." Notte sighed. He patted Shawn's head.

Shawn felt the shock start in his toes and shoot up his body until his lips trembled. He repeated Notte's words in his head, trying to make the best sense of them. Lassie was awake— Shawn was relieved. But Lassie was alone. No one believed in his innocence. Notte had been to see him— had threatened him like before— except now Shawn was part of the reason for the intense fear. And Lassie— Shawn felt shame, and something else he couldn't put a name to. Lassiter said he would confess to the murder, if Notte released Shawn, safe and unharmed. _Why would he do that?_ Then, before that, Notte alluded that it would have been easy to kill Lassiter in his hospital bed— because he was all alone and panicked— as if he wouldn't be missed.

Shawn jerked his head away. "You're a monster," he blurted out, letting the anger flare. "He didn't kill your brother. Why choose him, out of all the other cops?"

Notte frowned. "You cannot see it? Mr. Spencer, of all the police, he had the most to gain— he was the youngest yet presented the most diligent work ethic."

"So?" Shawn mumbled before biting his lip.

Notte balled his fists. "_He_ would not let Roman from the charges. _He_ looked for more and more damning evidence— ah, he would not _stop_. The other police may have given up eventually—"

Shawn stared back incredulously. _Is this what Notte truly believed?_ _That Lassiter had led some kind of one-man investigation and gathered all the evidence himself to put Cavaliere behind bars for good? _Notte paced jerkily before him.

"I also remember the victorious sneer he wore on his face in court the day my brother was sentenced. He was ecstatic he had broken up my family."

Shawn knew it was pretty much useless to argue with Notte and his delusions, but he felt he had to try some reason. "You really think all of that is Lassiter's fault?" Shawn held his ground when Notte spun with hard eyes towards him. "Why don't you scapegoat the right person— your brother— the criminal who enjoyed drugging kids?" Notte took a menacing step towards Shawn's chair.

"And he was only doing his duty?" Notte growled. "No— he was securing his future. Making a name for himself in Santa Barbara. Making his name out of the bloodletting of ours. This brought him marks— and he was proud of his destruction," Notte seethed. "And from then on, on his way to become Head Detective. Never looked back, never had fears, lost sleep over what he had done. I haveh watched him since that very day— from the shadows. How many times I wished to leap out, silence him immediately with one bullet— but this is, ah, much sweeter."

Shawn clamped his mouth shut. Notte's words suggested how seriously convinced he had become of this— that Lassiter had single-handedly destroyed an entire family— all because he worked hard to put a criminal in prison where he belonged. Pin pricks of fear ran down the back of his neck, then down his arms and he shuddered before he could stop it. He knew he had to change the subject fast, though he wasn't certain he wanted to hear Notte's reasoning of anything else.

"Why wait all this time— if you were here?" Shawn asked, a shiver going up his arms on the word "here". "If you really wanted to, why didn't you—" he broke off, not wanting to finish the thought let alone the sentence. It chilled _him_ to know that Notte had stayed in Santa Barbara after his brother's death, the reason being to start a dangerous obsession with Lassiter which would only, at least in Notte's mind, end with Lassiter's suffering and death.

"Why did I not put a bullet in his heart immediately?" Notte asked, looking Shawn over. Shawn didn't move or say a word. He stared past Notte to the door, tracing his eyes around the door frame. "At first, shock. I did not know what to think. But with the passage of time, I came to understand who— which one of them exactly— was the most responsible. And with this understanding, I realize that a quick death is no good. He must feel pain— there must be destruction of self— loss— everything must ache to the point of dying— without dying, until I say."

Shawn couldn't help himself— he let his eyes stray to Notte's face. He would have never admitted it before all this if evil truly had a face— but it did now.

"Then, a few years ago, the hand of fate offered its plan— a special concoction, virtually unknown. Then, it did not have a name, but it made outlandish promises of enhancing fear— working both along and against a person's reaction to any given situation— real or imagined. It sounded too good— not without its price, certainly," Notte said with narrowed eyes. "We searched and then, at the right time, what we had wanted would become ours."

"The right time?" Shawn asked softly.

Notte smiled. "Mr. Lassiter was at the height of the game— a leader, respected, admired, nearly infallible. Yet, how easy it is torn away. How easy they turn from him, how easy they place their blame." He paused, looking Shawn over again. "Perhaps too easy— but this is why I haveh you here now. You nearly saved him, Mr. Spencer."

Shawn felt bile in his throat. Notte was studying him with a twisted admiration— a mix of disgust and awe. He looked away again, feeling more helpless now than he'd ever felt, even as a child. He was still having a hard time grasping that Notte stalked and plotted against Lassiter for years— that he had completely fixated on the Lassiter as the source of all of his problems. Even Shawn would admit Lassiter had his irritating qualities, but at his heart he was a good cop. He didn't deserve this.

"Ah, now that you are more well, perhaps we should call your father again?" Notte asked, his voice beveled, even. Shawn was stabbed with a coldness. He wished his father would keep his distance, but feared Henry wouldn't— even though Shawn wanted to see him. _That would be the day, wouldn't it?_ he thought nervously. It was messed up that it took him getting kidnapped to admit, at least to himself, that he needed Henry. "I'm certain he is worried about you, _si_?" Notte reached in his jacket pocket, retrieving a switchblade which he snapped open close to Shawn's face. Shawn jumped, then his eyes focused on the dried trail of red on the underside of the blade. With his other hand, Notte got out his cell phone and dialed. He pressed the blade against the hollow of Shawn's throat, waiting for Henry to pick up. "Shh, shh," Notte whispered to Shawn as he gritted his teeth, tightening his muscles to pull back the slightest distance from the knife.

"Hello, Mr. Spencer," Notte said when Henry picked up. The elder Spencer immediately asked about Shawn. "I was just speaking to him," the man continued, in an even but teasing tone. "And because I have decided to be generous, I will let you speak to him without the gag." Notte held the phone to Shawn's ear.

"Dad?" Shawn asked. His voice sounded very small. He coughed. Shawn felt the cold blade against his skin. "Dad?" he repeated, his voice quivering.

"Shawn?" Henry practically yelled. "Shawn? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Shawn rasped. "Lass—"

Notte whispered something in Shawn's ear.

"Dad, please come get me," Shawn said flatly, though there was an obvious fear in his tone. The phone was pulled from his ear.

"Let us see, it is just past eleven— I will give you two hours, Mr. Spencer. Bring the documents, come alone, and no police." Notte told him the address.

"Wait, are you letting Shawn go?" Henry blurted out, fear making him tremble.

"See you soon, Mr. Spencer," Notte said with a note of finality. He closed the phone.

Shawn barely noticed that Notte had pulled the blade away. He hung his head, feeling ashamed. Notte's mouth against his ear: _"Tell him to come to your rescue or I will slice your neck slow and all he will find upon arrival is a bloody corpse." _His breaths hitched, his eyes closed tight to keep in hot tears.

"Ah, but your father will come for you, Mr. Spencer," Notte placated over him, patting his cheek. Shawn stiffened, jerking away. "And then all will be well." He gagged Shawn, and then left. Shawn knew it was hopeless, but he struggled against the restraints, just as frustrated as ever that there wasn't any give. He screamed into the cloth until he was only a mass of shaking rage— a mess. _Please, somebody, help me. _Shawn struggled again, over and over until he was lightheaded— whatever calories had been in the broth must have gone. _Please, I need help._ _Help me! _He passed out screaming.

_* * *_

_"Ah, isn't delirium soothing, _caro_? See how much you haveh upset them? How could you?"_

_Lassiter could hear voices— he fought the current to break the surface of sound. _

_"Now, I would not move if I were you, _caro_."_

_Where am I? What am I doing here? He felt his limbs curled into towards his body; his arms were freezing. Angry male voices argued somewhere above his head._

_"What do you need him for? You will risk everything we haveh worked for?"_

_"This is about taking back what is ours. You do not want that? We have come to be so lowly in our own name because of him!"_

_"Why not kill him now? Why haveh you waited?"_

_"He must suffer, as my brother— your father— suffered."_

_"What if this does not work? What if they do not believe this theft? Notta, why choose _that_ over the poison? It could have been quick. It still could. We could be at peace."_

_"He does not deserve quick! You do not want his suffering?"_

_Lassiter stirred, just a bit, catching faint glimpses of the two men arguing. He pawed at the floor, trying to sit up. One of them spun— an angry, young face— and then the sting of pain on his cheek that raked tears to his eyes. Why couldn't he get up? _

_"What if we cannot get what we want? What if they do not arrest him? What if we have more to do to secure his torment? Notta, have you put all your hopes on—"_

_There was another sharp slap, but Lassiter realized that he hadn't been hit this time. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, so he listened to the voices threading in through his mind, even though he could swear someone was calling his name. _

_"You cannot go back on this! You were there as much as I— and we at least haveh this one more job to do."_

_"We do not even need those— it is such a risk! What if he is recognized? They will take him from us, then what?"_

_"You worry like a woman— he is ours—"_

_Their voices were drown out by a sound equivalent to a sledgehammer bashing metal right near his head._

_"Then we should keep him here," the first voice muttered as the clanging died out, young, sweet with an edge. "For all time. Then you will haveh what you want— no more police, and I shall haveh what I want—"_

_"You fool! They will not stop looking for him!" _

While Lassiter shifted uneasily in his sleep, Henry read over the journal again. He'd arrived immediately, as soon visiting hours began— his stomach was tight with knots of dread; Lassiter had been asleep for almost the full hour since he'd been here. Henry knew he needed to rest in order to heal— but the younger man seemed to grow paler with each passing minute. He sipped his coffee and flipped another page. It was hard to ignore that Lassiter looked like he was in some kind of agony; Henry made himself reread the whole journal before he tried to intervene.

There was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to guide him away from the voices. Someone wanted him to wake up. He heard his name.

"Carlton, please," a voice in the present urged. "Come back."

He felt the hard tide of memory attempting to pull him back under; a darkness, like a shivery scream, hovering just inside his mouth. He swallowed it, dry as it was like paper.

Coolness on his skin— soft as cloth, damp. The voices were melting, muted into the background of the darkness in his head. "A bad dream," he heard someone mutter, the ethereal voice hovering close to his face. He shivered, and then couldn't feel the cloth anymore.

"You still look like hell," Henry muttered when Lassiter opened his eyes. Lassiter recognizing him, shot back, "I feel like"— he coughed, pain shooting up his ribs. His eyes watered a little. "Hell," he finished.

"You all right?" Henry asked, looking him over with concern. "Doctor said it was just a bad dream—"

"I wish," Lassiter murmured. He pressed his left hand against his head, stifling a groan.

"Was it a memory?"

Lassiter shrugged, feeling pain in his right wrist. "Bits— pieces— it was too muddled to make sense of it." Lassiter's eyes fell on the journal. "Light reading?"

Henry grunted, deep in his throat. Lassiter's nasty injuries glared at him. "Anyone bother you last night?"

"No," Lassiter said. "But my sleep was restless at best." He shifted, wincing.

Henry nodded. "Mine too." He tapped the journal. "I'm sorry."

"For what? My life?" Lassiter mumbled, turning his head.

Henry sighed. "Yesterday— I lost my temper. You'd just been—" Henry hesitated, the contents of the journal still fresh. "And then I hit you—"

Lassiter shrugged, gingerly. "It knocked some sense into me— it was wrong of me to try to keep that information from you. You're right, he is your son. And it's my mess and my responsibility."

"Carlton, this is more than a 'mess'," Henry said, dropping the journal on the metal bedside table. He sighed, not knowing exactly how to phrase it. "I think— from all this, from what I saw yesterday— that the contents of the syringe are still in your bloodstream."

_Oh._ Lassiter wasn't expecting that. He turned his head, staring at Henry as wide as his eyes could go.

Henry gestured to the journal. "In there, you make several references to being under someone's control— do you know why? Were you threatened in some way? A weapon, a death threat?"

Lassiter swallowed, trying to think through the holes in his memory. Eventually he told Henry that there was threatening, there were weapons, possible death threats— but that those weren't the reasons he did what he was told. "They'd just say something— sit, walk, be quiet, stop, stay still—" Lassiter shook his head slowly. "And I'd do it. There were times I could resist— try to, but—" He grunted with frustration. "It doesn't make sense. It's no wonder everyone thinks I'm crazy— I even think—"

"You're not. Get that thought out of your head. I'm sorry you had to face this alone— it seems that that's what your abductors wanted."

"What?" Lassiter's eyes widened.

"You, cut off from everyone— friends, colleagues— isolated. They could prey on you more easily if you weren't thinking clearly— if you, yourself, were convinced you had lost your mind. And then if you'd been drugged, the effects of paranoia could become more debilitating."

"Oh, my— god." Lassiter took in some deep breaths, feeling his hands shake. It— made sense. Then he paused. "But Shawn was helping me. He was keeping me sane," Lassiter realized slowly as he said it. "I didn't want his help, I didn't think I needed it— but he was there— convinced that something was wrong." Lassiter pressed his lips together. "I didn't deserve his help— I don't deserve yours. Whatever I've done—" Still, after all this time, after all that Spencer had helped him uncover, after all he'd remembered on his own— god, even if this whole thing was somehow connected to Roman Cavaliere— what _had_ he done wrong? He had no idea. Other than remembering, other than figuring out that he wasn't the killer of Max Sweets. He shook his head.

"Stop it," Henry cut in. "They're not getting you. I won't allow it."

Lassiter froze, peering at the serious look in Henry's eyes. "What if it's not up to you?"

Henry crossed his arms. "You don't deserve any thing bad happening to you— and I'm pissed that they went after you like this."

Lassiter looked him over, wondering if Henry was only saying this because he was worried about Shawn. "I'm not a saint, Henry."

"Doesn't matter." Henry paused. "I see what you're doing— trying to push me away. You think you can handle this yourself?"

Lassiter sighed. "No, I don't. But I've already put enough people in danger—"

"Carlton, don't let me ever catch you saying that again," Henry said firmly, stunning the younger man a little with his tone. Lassiter had heard Henry use this tone with Shawn— and heard the kid laugh it off. Perhaps he was mistaken, but it almost seemed Henry was treating him like a son— or a younger brother who needed to be looked out for. It was strange; he was used to looking out for himself.

"You don't think I put Shawn in—"

Henry's mouth drew into a tight line. "I told you, Shawn is Shawn. I saw that bruise— that would have been enough to make me retrace my steps, fall back into the shadows a little more. But Shawn sees something like that as a challenge; besides, he was right to have his concern. These aren't childish games— your life is at stake here. So is his."

Lassiter was stunned to silence. He thought over Henry's words.

Henry's cell phone rang inside his pocket. Henry grew tense, pulling the phone out and answering it. He got up, wandering to the window, which now showed him a bright sunny day— the fourth day since Shawn's kidnapping. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Spencer," the man said. Henry threw a look to Lassiter and then mouthed, "It's him."

"Can I please speak to Shawn?" Henry pleaded. "I have the documents— I'll do whatever you want."

After the man made claims of his great generosity, Henry heard Shawn's voice. "Dad? Dad?"

"Shawn? Shawn? Are you okay?"

Shawn sounded very weak— dehydrated, definitely. He couldn't tell from these few words if Shawn had been injured; he prayed that Shawn was all right. Henry knew he was somehow being forced to say the words, "Please come get me—" because if Shawn were himself, he'd try to talk Henry out of it with some sarcastic or joking remark.

_"Dad, please come get me."_ The words made Henry shiver as he listened to Notte's instructions, then heard only silence. He stood by the window trying to control his breathing.

"You talked to Shawn?" Lassiter asked, bringing him back into the present. Henry went back to the chair and sat down.

Henry rubbed a hand across his mouth. "Yeah. I've got two hours to deliver the documents. They didn't say if—" There wasn't any plan; Henry heard the man's warning to Lassiter yesterday— _"Do what we say or we'll keep him. And you'll never find his body."_

Lassiter swallowed to moisten his cotton dry mouth. He'd held his breath the whole time. "How did he sound?"

"Scared," Henry said. "He said he was okay. He started to ask about you." Henry got up but froze, seeming unsure. He looked towards the door, then back in Lassiter's direction.

"Where do you have to go?" Lassiter asked. He felt around for the remote to the bed, pushing the button so he could raise the bed into a sitting position.

"Leadbetter Hill Beach, to some quiet, near empty lot of storage and industrial buildings," Henry said, repeating what Notte had told him. He started to repeat the number when he saw Lassiter push the sheets from his legs and reach for his IV lines.

"I'm going with you," Lassiter told Henry. He ripped out his IVs with a few grunts before Henry could even protest.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Samuelson asked Juliet, who still looked nervous despite her insistence that she wasn't.

"I'm sure— I'm trying to prepare myself for likely fall out." Juliet smoothed her hair, tight in its bun.

"He really means this much to you?" Adam asked. "That you would risk suspension?"

Juliet sighed. "They both do— I can't ignore that things aren't wrong anymore, especially since there are vivid visuals which state otherwise." She set her face and strode towards Chief Vick's office.

Vick was going over the two reports when Juliet knocked on the door. She was trying very hard to make sense of this strange plastic container the CS team had found under Carlton's sink; it had been written up in the report as being connected to the kitchen water pipes, set on a timer, and its purpose seemed to be to change the water into a red gooey substance akin to corn syrup. But what was its real purpose? Why . . . no, how, had that gotten in there? When? They wouldn't have even found it if the kitchen cabinet hadn't been already opened. Its existence made Vick very uncomfortable. She realized the only person who could explain it was Lassiter— and she had forbidden any of her force to see him.

And why had— who might— _"The real killer?"_ she heard O'Hara's snap from yesterday.

She let O'Hara's voice stay fresh and scanned the next part— which detailed the damage done to Lassiter's car. _Dear god— hadn't O'Hara tried to mention something about slashed tires—_ "I didn't listen to her," Vick muttered. She looked up at the knock. "Come in," she said distractedly, mildly surprised to see O'Hara standing rigidly in the doorway.

Juliet stepped in, easing the door shut. Juliet smoothed the front of her jacket, though it was already free of wrinkles. "Ma'am. I have something I need to say." She waited for Vick's full attention.

"All right," Karen said, folding her hands together. She stole another glance at the report.

Juliet took a deep breath. "I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday— I let my emotions get the better of me. But I would like to express the reason why I was— why I am— so upset."

Karen nodded. The words found cut into Carlton's car door were glaring at her from the sheet of paper, as well peeking at her from their photographs. She cleared her throat. "Go on."

Juliet shifted her weight. She began explaining some of what she had told Samuelson— how she knew it was her duty to arrest criminals and how letting her feelings for a particular person get in the way was never an option. But Lassiter had been her partner for three years— she knew him. At first, she'd been confused— but she was certain now that a horrible injustice had been done against Lassiter— and she needed to discover who was really responsible.

"I see," Vick said. "And how long have you felt this way?"

Juliet shook her head, knowing what she was about to say might get her fired. "Nearly since the beginning, but I didn't act on it until—"

Vick held up her hand with a sigh. "Did you go to Mr. Spencer?"

Juliet frowned, but nodded. "But only to ask for his help, to do his own investigation— not to play detective with him. That was on August 11. To my surprise, I discovered Shawn had already been helping him."

"What?" Vick stood up. "O'Hara, this is important. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I—" Juliet flushed. She thought of the perfect example. "You didn't believe me when I told you about what Shawn said about Lassiter's slashed tires"— Vick froze— "so why would you believe me if I let you know that Shawn told me Lassiter may have a stalker?" Juliet's hands flew to her mouth. Her skin felt hot and prickly. She was certain she had just perjured herself.

_Lassiter may have a stalker. _Karen felt the same ice in her veins as when she was told of Lassiter's probable attack. Finding her voice was hard; it was drifting above her head in many shattered pieces, but she was able to collect some shards, enough to say, "You're right, O'Hara. I wouldn't have believed you— then. But I believe you now."

Juliet's brow furrowed, staring at her superior. "You— what?"

"Here," Vick said, handing over Lassiter's report, open to the page she was studying. "Tell me more about this stalker, Detective."

Juliet took it, confused. "I didn't see this part before," she said.

"I just got it— it's the second part of the report. I held it onto it, trying to make sense of things."

Juliet stared at the enlarged photographs of the angry, red scratches of "Ask" and "Tell". "Oh, my god. Shawn didn't say anything about these."

"Maybe he didn't know— maybe this had been done after he'd seen the tires."

Juliet looked up from the pictures, staring into Vick's eyes. _This did seemed like the work of a stalker; god, wouldn't that be a better explanation as to why and how Lassiter had been attacked than as a random home invasion? After all, nothing had been stolen. _

_Except Shawn._

Juliet cleared her throat. "Shawn told me that Lassiter was panicked because he thought he was being watched— Shawn said that that was the reason he'd left the hospital." She sighed, trying to sort out that conversation.

"Because he _thought_ he was being watched?" Karen felt herself backsliding and did her best to focus on this moment. _Lassiter may have a stalker. This stalker may have attacked him, could have almost killed him— god._ "Wait— Lassiter told— tried to tell me that someone had visited his room in the middle of the night—" She breathed, closing her eyes, hearing his terrified cries on Shawn's voice mail. "And scared him to death." She shook her head. "He tried to tell me."

Juliet nodded. "That's what Shawn had said— Lassiter apparently told Shawn he didn't feel safe in the hospital after this person—" She sighed. "Chief, Shawn mentioned it was possible Lassiter's— abductors could have cleaned up. Made it seem like he was lying about the whole thing. Shawn said that Lassiter was worried the people watching him may have taken him— but he just couldn't remember."

_Lassiter's abductors. He can't remember. _There it was again. Though, Vick tried to admit, if it was possible— more than possible— that Lassiter was being stalked, and he'd been alone, confined to his apartment, wasn't it also possible that Lassiter had been telling the truth, all along? Of course, none of these thoughts were new to her— she'd been wrestling with them since Lassiter first went missing and then returned. If this was really true— then she'd have to admit that she had been nearly as bad as these abductors or stalkers— she had disregarded his claims and fears as lies— she'd victimized him simply by not having the faith in Lassiter, to know enough when he was telling her the truth.

"According to Shawn, Lassiter remembered the name— surname— of one of the people who may have abducted him," Juliet said, still sorting out her thoughts. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, trying remember how to pronounce the name.

"A surname?" Vick said, feeling needles in her hands.

As Juliet tried to remember how to say it, a knock at the door startled them.

"Come in," Vick called, still eyeing Juliet, who was stumped.

Adam Samuelson leaned in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a man who—"

"I know that it means 'the night' in Italian," Juliet said, not meaning to cut him off, but doing it anyway. She furrowed her brow deeper. "Why can't I think of it?"

"What means 'the night' in Italian?" Samuelson asked.

Juliet sighed. "This surname I can't think of," she said.

Samuelson thought a moment. "Do you mean Cavaliere?"

Juliet froze. "What did you say?"

"Cavaliere," Samuelson repeated. "Lassiter's old case, right, from 1998?"

"What are you talking about, Lassiter's old case?" Vick demanded, her eyes shining.

Juliet shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed. "Why did you say Cavaliere?"

"Because that name means 'knight' in Italian." When he caught the two women staring at him, he elaborated. "Knight. You know, regal, gallant, rides a white horse, chain mail, jousting—"

Juliet felt her blood hum through her veins. "Adam, didn't you tell me that the family— Cavaliere— had to change their name because of some scandal—?"

Adam nodded. "They didn't have to— but they had too much pride. At least the reporter who wrote the story thought they did. They changed it to— huh. It was another word that means 'night' in Italian, but that kind of 'night' that's darkness, the opposite of day."

"Notte," Juliet supplied, the name sharp on her tongue.

Adam nodded. "Yeah. That's it. That's what they changed it to. The reason being something about their world going dark since the beloved golden son had died."

"Notte?" Vick repeated, staring hard at her two detectives.

"Yes," Juliet said, feeling her lips go numb. "According to Shawn, that's the surname of the person Lassiter remembered stalking him— and who may have abducted him."


	22. Chapter 21: Where Are You Now?

**Chapter Twenty One: Are You In Another Place? Or Behind Another Face? Where Are You Now?**

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Author's Note: I've noticed, going through previous chapters, that the scar on Notte's face changes sides, so we're just going to chalk it up to Lassiter's confusion, and say from here on out that's it's on the right side of his face, which is what I think I originally meant.

This chapter contains minor Lassiter whumpage.

Thanks again to all my reviewers! :D Hope you're still hanging in there. My job is done, so I'm back to working on this full time until I find another one. Thanks again for reading. :)

A note about the drugs/ control over Lassiter: Mostly everything coming up regarding the "mystery drug" is completely made up (fictional) for the purpose of this story. The drug itself is made up as well, and I got its name by combining two Italian words that actually, when you know the translation (in the next chapter's Vocabulary), is an ironic name. I have done semi-extensive research, looking to see if there really is a "fear drug" out there and if so, what effect it may have if were mixed with something as potential as, say, Rohypnol, but I couldn't find what I wanted. I suspect that because, according to Wikipedia, mixing just alcohol with Rohypnol has the potential for instant death that mixing anything else would do the same. So, as I mentioned, the "effects" are entirely made up.

The "effects" are based on two plot points from two different shows I've seen and found interesting. One had to do with GHB (which I took some liberties and inferred, for the purpose of this story, had similar properties to Rohypnol.) where on _Diagnosis: Murder,_ three cops/ marines conspired to kill a fourth by giving him GHB, thus making him susceptible to obeying simple commands. (I honestly don't know if this is true or if it was embellished for the purpose of that show.) The other plot point is from an episode of _The Mentalist_, where one of the detectives ends up hypnotized. It's explained in that show that though the detective breaks a suspect's nose, that even under hypnosis, the detective wouldn't be tricked into doing anything truly against his morals— such as murder. (Which also may be a fictional concept.) So some of those principals are borrowed and woven into my original ideas of this "being under the control" of some drug.

Disclaimer: I credit any (true) information about Rohypnol and Amphetamine to Wikipedia. I also credit the above concepts to their respective creators, and note again that I'm only borrowing small pieces/ concepts of their ideas to enhance my story. I also do not own Power Bars or lyrics to Tori Amos's _Hotel_.

Italian Vocabulary (credited to wordreference dot com): _Idiota _= Idiot; _Cosa stai facendo? _= What are you doing?; _La maschera _= The mask; _Una droga speciale _= A special drug

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"Wait a minute," Vick said, shaking her head. "What does this mean, "Lassiter's old case'?"

Juliet turned to her, summing it up. "I have the file handy— do you want to see it?" Vick nodded.

"I'll get it," Samuelson offered, then paused. "Wait— there was a reason I came in here." He threw Juliet an apologetic look. "Sorry, Chief, but there's a man here from Central Coast— he says it's urgent he sees you."

Karen squeezed the bridge of her nose. "Can it wait?" Her mind was reeling.

"I'll see," Samuelson said, ducking out the door.

"How did you come to this conclusion, O'Hara?" Vick asked.

"Actually, Shawn did," Juliet said, remembering the Internet search they had helped each other with. "He was going to ask Lassiter about it—" She closed her eyes, trying to think why they hadn't spoken further about it. "Oh." Vick raised an eyebrow. "Then Gus was arrested, and I didn't have the chance to ask him." She felt herself blush, realizing Karen would want to know how she got her hands on this specific file. Juliet looked Vick in the eye and told her the truth— she'd been curious when she started reading about this case and wondered if looking into it could really help Lassiter.

Vick sighed, but found herself too curious to give O'Hara a proper reprimand. "So Roman Cavaliere was the creator of unstable drug combinations and he made them available to the unknowing public?" she paraphrased.

Juliet nodded. "Children were his favorite target, according the file." She shifted her weight. "Except there's one flaw with this theory."

"What's that?"

"There's a note— and a gruesome picture— at the end of the file. They are apparently unrelated to the case itself, but for some reason they were filed in there as an afterthought. At least that's what it seems to me. Cavaliere was murdered in prison." Juliet swallowed, hating that the image flashed through her head. "It was grisly; the person responsible was another inmate whose family member had been affected nearly the point of death by Cavaliere's drugs."

Vick's mouth twisted. "O'Hara—" She sighed. "I know I haven't been very open minded lately, but isn't this the kind of thing that seems important enough to bring to my attention?"

Juliet felt a small flash of shame, but it was covered quickly by a surge of other emotion. "I'm sorry, but I didn't really know if it was at all related. Or if I was only grasping at straws, trying to figure out why or how Lassiter could be guilty when it just felt wrong."

"Perhaps this stalker is a family member of Cavaliere's, or a former accomplice," Vick continued. She sighed again. There wasn't time now to assign more blame. _What's done is done . . . we'll just have to move on from here._ "It's more than possible this person could have known about Lassiter's house arrest—" _Oh, this was bad._ She got a horrible flash of Lassiter lying on his apartment floor, still as death in a pool of blood. She kicked herself from not trusting her instincts sooner.

"But why would this stalker kidnap Shawn Spencer?" Samuelson asked, reentering the room. He handed the Cavaliere file to Vick. She immediately opened it and began scanning. "Assuming it's the same person who beat up Lassiter." He paused. "Are you thinking that?"

"Because Shawn was helping Lassiter— getting in the way?" Juliet speculated. "Is it plausible that the stalker could do that?" It was frustrating, because they knew very little about this person or his or her motives. "But remember, according what Shawn told me, Lassiter thinks this 'Notte' person may have had a hand in kidnapping _him— _and if this person was stalking Lassiter, then he may have found out what Shawn knew."

"But would the stalker/abductor want Lassiter under arrest? Or beaten up? And why kidnap Lassiter before just to let him go?" Samuelson wondered.

"Maybe he got away," Juliet suggested quietly with a shrug.

"I feel like we're missing a big chunk here," Samuelson continued. He turned towards Vick. "Chief, McNab said he would screen the—" Buzz appeared in the doorway, startling them with his timing. His face bore a haunted, chalky look.

"Now is not a good time," Vick said firmly, looking up from the file. He held out a mini DVD player. "You need to see this, Chief," he told her.

"Why?" She shook her head, not meaning to sound so snippy.

"Lassiter's on this DVD," McNab said with frown. "It's bad."

Her eyebrows rose sharply. "What?" He didn't elaborate. She took the player from him, setting the file on her desk. "I'll be right back," she told her detectives, and went down the hallway with McNab towards the man who'd come into see her.

The man stood up stiffly. He was of medium height and build, in his early forties, with dark brown floppy hair. He looked nervous, and adjusted the glasses on his nose as Vick came up and introduced herself. "Greg Motgemery," the man said, hastily shaking her hand. "I'm a Medical Chemist at Central Coast Pharmaceuticals."

"This is yours?" Vick asked, indicating the DVD player.

"Yes, Chief Vick," Greg said. "I had this private camera feed installed in my lab after I heard about the thefts at the North Coast branch. With sensitive material, one can never be too careful." He shifted. "I usually check the feed more often, but a few days ago I was called to Los Angeles for a family emergency." He sniffed. "I was out of town until late yesterday. Otherwise I would have brought this to you sooner."

"What exactly is this?" Vick asked impatiently.

Greg made a face which nearly matched McNab's. "It's evidence of crimes," he told her cryptically. "I think it speaks for itself."

Karen twisted her mouth, annoyed the man wasn't being more forthcoming. She indicated that he should follow her to her office, where Samuelson and Juliet still waited. Vick explained who Greg was and that he considered the recorded DVD urgent. Greg keyed the DVD up quickly and then stepped back so the three of them could get as close as they wanted. The feed was recorded in color with every sound audible. They all knew instantly why Mr. Motgemery had considered this so important; as they watched, he made certain his thoughts were in order, so he could explain everything clearly.

_* * *_

The date and time stamps at the right bottom corner of the screen read 08/01/09, 2:08 am.

_Cybil dragged a tall, masked figure in dark clothing into the lab by the throat. He yanked the mask off, exposing Lassiter's bruised face and gagged mouth. "_Idiota!_" Cybil yelled into Lassiter's ear. "I should kill you."_

_Lassiter's back arched and he clawed at the hands around his neck. _

_Cybil's other fist smashed into the side of Lassiter's head, making him crumple just as Notte appeared with Max Sweets at gunpoint. "_Cosa stai facendo?_" Notte snarled at Cybil. "Get him up and put the mask back on his face!"_

_Max Sweets took a few steps towards Lassiter, before turning angrily towards Notte, and then Cybil. "All you said was to get the security pass! You never said you were going to abduct him. He's a cop! How could you do this?"_

_"We do what we want," Cybil snarled. He toed Lassiter's ribs and Lassiter groaned, slumping over more. Lassiter was on his all fours, pressing one hand against his face, seeming dazed. He stared up at Sweets confusedly when Sweets cried out. _

_"I want no part of this!"_

_"You're already involved. Now shut your mouth." Notte shoved his revolver in Sweets' face. _

_"You can't turn on me," Sweets yelled back. "We're getting out of here." He went forward, nearly reaching Lassiter before Notte smacked the back of Sweets' head with the butt of his gun. Sweets doubled over, grabbing his head but didn't collapse. _

_"Get that shirt off him, now!" Notte ordered. _

_Cybil grabbed a fistful of Lassiter's hair and yanked Lassiter to an upright position on his knees. He stooped and pulled the long sleeved tee off Lassiter quickly, revealing a red t-shirt underneath._

_"_La maschera!_" Notte barked. Cybil replaced the skin mask over Lassiter's face and then elbowed him sharply in the stomach. Lassiter doubled over, his arms wrapped around him. _

_"Tear it up!" Notte ordered. Cybil ripped the shirt into two pieces, tossing a long strip of cloth to Notte, who used the it to bind Max Sweets' hands in front of him. _

_"Please," Sweets pleaded, imploring with his bound hands. "I take it back— just let me go. I won't tell anyone you have him."_

_Notte scowled. "You already implicated yourself. He's ours now. You are too much a risk." He nodded towards Cybil. "Tie the detective's hands."_

_Cybil pulled Lassiter to his feet by his neck and used the remainder of the shirt to pin Lassiter's hands to his sides. His gun appeared from his waistband and he jammed it into the side of Lassiter's head, growling sharply, "Walk, you pig." _

_Lassiter moved. _

_"What did you do to him?" Sweets cried out, noticing Lassiter didn't resist. _

"Una droga speciale_," Cybil sneered. "He does what he's told. Stop!" Lassiter paused. Cybil tucked the gun away and picked up two cardboard boxes with the Central Coast insignia on the side. "Walk," he snarled again, and Lassiter obeyed. The four of them disappeared out of side door._

* * *

There were only two people they recognized on the DVD— then very much alive murder victim Max Sweets, and Lassiter— held hostage by two sinister yet unrecognizable, unknown men, one in his mid-thirties, the other in his mid to late fifties. They both spoke with accents, though the younger man's was much less pronounced. Though they had all seen it, they watched it through a second time in tense silence just to be thorough.

"That's Carlton," Juliet murmured, horrified, the first one to speak. She was puzzled by Lassiter's behavior. "I recognize that gun the younger one is holding— it's unmistakably Lassiter's."

"Well, now we know for certain Lassiter wasn't lying about being kidnapped," Samuelson voiced, though it was unnecessary. He didn't know why, but the younger man was familiar; was it the way he looked or spoke? The look in his eyes? Adam added, "Would it be wrong to infer they may be speaking Italian?"

Juliet's eyes shot to his. "It doesn't sound like Spanish to me," she agreed. She let her thoughts roll back to their earlier conversation— albeit interrupted— about this Cavaliere-Notte connection. She shivered, hearing the older man growl, _"He's ours now", _as if Lassiter were a possession, a toy. _You're wrong,_ she silently reprimanded the man. _Lassiter doesn't belong to you. What would make that man say that? And he said "ours", not "mine" . . . could there be more than one stalker-kidnapper? Could both of the men on that DVD be Lassiter's kidnappers? _Her thoughts hitched. _Could they be Shawn's? _

Vick didn't realize she had her hand over her mouth until the DVD had long finished. "August 1st— that's a day after Lassiter went missing," Vick finally stated. "He's the figure in black from the other tape," Vick realized suddenly. "The one we thought could have been—" She stared intensely at her two detectives, a prickling sensation running up the back of her neck.

"The one we thought was Gus?" Juliet whispered. "How— how is that possible?"

Behind them, Greg cleared his throat. They started, having forgot he was still there. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, ignoring their glares, "but this is only part of the reason I requested to see you, Chief Vick." When no one spoke, he continued. "I think I have an explanation why he's— your officer— is behaving the way he does on the tape."

"What are you talking about?" Vick asked, catching the same confusion in her other two detective's eyes.

"You must have noticed," Greg said, a bit nervously, "that he—" Greg paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. "To me, he's behaving the way a person who's been pumped with drugs would." He watched them exchange glances with each other, and then continued. "From my studies, and what I've observed on this feed, your officer Lassiter shows signs of a person affected by Rohypnol, and something else— he's compliant, obeying orders, not fighting back." Greg swallowed. "Except that he seems to have a pretty strong will— he was fighting the drugs. Otherwise, he wouldn't have tried to pull the hands off his neck— he would have just let the man choke him."

"Rohypnol?" Juliet repeated. Horrible thoughts skittered across the floor of her mind.

Greg plucked his glasses off his nose and wiped the lenses furiously on his sleeve. "At first I thought it could just be a coincidence, but then I really studied the DVD, and realized—"

Vick held up her hand, her brows pinching together tightly. "Mr. Motgemery, I must interrupt. _What_ could be a coincidence?"

"Couldn't be," Greg corrected softly, looking ill. He replaced the glasses onto his nose. "A week ago, Burton Guster brought me a glass he said he needed to have tested for a friend. He didn't confirm who the friend was, but I guessed it was that Shawn Spencer guy, the one who's always—" He caught their eyes; they seemed to understand the capabilities of Shawn's antics. "Uh, Burton said he didn't know what was in the glass, but the results—" He paused. "The glass tested positive for traces of Rohypnol— almost a double dose."

Karen's mind reached back days; she was struck with chills when she recalled Lassiter telling her, directly after his arrest, _"One of them made me drink something after they'd just woken me. I swallowed some and spit out the rest." _Could it really be? Her heart revved, pulsating quickly in her chest.

"I have the source— the glass," Greg was saying. "I don't have the results though— I'll have to redo the test; I had the packet sent up to Burton and when I got back I heard he'd been arrested. I don't understand that one either." Chief Vick looked impatient, so Greg shuffled around in his bag and pulled the out the small blue glass, which was wrapped in clear plastic bags.

Juliet breathed her horror, eyeing the glass. It was the same one she had seen on Lassiter's night stand the day they found out he was missing— and the one that hadn't been there when she'd gone to get clothes for him. "That's definitely from Lassiter's apartment," she said softly, explaining to Vick and Samuelson how she knew. "Shawn must have given it to Gus— at Lassiter's request?" she figured. "If Shawn really was helping—"

"Wait a second," Vick cut in. "Are you saying that you think that—" She froze. _Oh, my word. _

"Makes sense," Samuelson said, nodding. "But I thought Rohypnol was a sleep medication. Can you please explain more about what would make Lassiter obey orders?" he asked Greg.

"It is," Greg confirmed. "It would have make him sleep if given alone— but if it was administered with an amphetamine, which is my best guess— that would cancel out all its sleep properties and leave his subconscious awake but unaware— and very susceptible to the power of suggestion. The two drugs are opposites— one's a hypnotic and the other's a psychostimulant— one makes you sleep, the other causes wakefulness. It's a highly dangerous and unrecommended combination."

Juliet glanced at Vick and Adam, wondering if they were having as a hard of time processing this information as she. Her stomach was already twisted in knots from watching the DVD, observing Carlton in trouble— acting like a robot rather than a person. To think of him drugged with not only Rohypnol but something else potent; the whole of her skin trembled with anger and fear. "I'm sorry, Mr. Motgemery," she interrupted. "Is this really true— or is it speculation on your part? I'm just trying to understand here."

Greg nodded. "Mostly these kinds of things are thought of as urban legends— that mixing a hypnotic and a psychostimulant produces a side effect of hypnosis—" He sighed. "Honestly, these theories are often go untested because of the high risk— the worst being instant death— that accompanies them. This is the first case— should it be completely true— that I've ever seen. Though I remember some similar cases in the 1990s." He paused, and shook his head. "Sorry, never mind. I must point out that this wouldn't have any affect on his morals."

"What do you mean?" Vick cut in.

"He was obeying simple commands— 'stop', 'walk', that kind of thing. If being controlled this way, he would do it without being conscious of it— no thought at all, though as I mentioned, it seems he was able to resist at times. He must have had it drilled into him not to remove the gag or try to run or ask for help." Greg sighed. "But if he was morally against something, even if instructed, he wouldn't do it. For example, I'm assuming, since he's a police officer, he wouldn't kill a person in cold blood—"

"—Because it would go against his morals," Juliet said, nodding. She exchanged a knowing look with Adam. Juliet heard Karen gasp, and glanced towards her. "Chief?"

Vick's face had opened, light passing through her eyes. _If this was true, and from the evidence on the DVD, it could mean . . . Lassiter was innocent of the murder._ He couldn't have killed Max Sweets, despite— any evidence which suggested— "It was planted," she mumbled aloud. Everyone turned to Vick with questioning looks. They had stopped speaking, and were waiting for her, but she was too wrapped up in her own theories to notice.

On the DVD, Lassiter was too docile and dazed— he took the abuse quietly, and made no attempt to get control of the situation. Lassiter had stared at Sweets blankly. It seemed that his body was there, but his mind was not. Karen got another chill. After the mess of the interrogation, Lassiter had been roused but behaved in a similar way— zoned out. It seemed Sweets, though he implied he was involved with criminal activity, had made a weak but concerned attempt to help Lassiter, whom he realized was in danger. _We need to find the men on this DVD,_ she thought. "We'll need to get descriptions out, APBs," she continued, as if she had spoken the first thought aloud. Neither Juliet nor Adam moved, watching her.

Karen surprised them all by smiling. "Thank you, Mr. Motgemery." Greg raised his eyebrows. "Your coming forward with this information has just cleared Detective Lassiter of murder charges."

* * *

Henry stared at Lassiter, nearly unable to believe the younger man was serious.

"You aren't in any condition—"

"This is not up for discussion," Lassiter shot back. "You're not going in there alone. It might as be a suicide mission, Henry. They will never let the two of you go." He pushed out of the bed but staggered on his feet.

Henry caught him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Lassiter shook himself free but felt his vision blur. "I have to do this. I can't just stay here—" He heard Henry mutter a few curses; he slowly realized that Henry had him by the shoulders, keeping him from falling. "I'm not going to sit around and wait for the evening news which reports both of you dead," Lassiter said, sweat beading across his eyebrows. _Why was standing so difficult?_ His head swam furiously, his eyes watering from the pain in his ribs. "This is my problem— I need to be the one who gets Shawn out of it. But I, of course, need your help."

Henry stared at him with a frown. "You can barely stand up. Can you even walk?"

Lassiter stared back, blinking hard to make the room steady. "I'll do anything to make this right. They can have me— but I'm not abandoning him— or you. Especially not after what you've both done for me."

Henry wanted to tell the younger man get back in bed but he figured that if he left Lassiter, the detective would follow him, or try to make the mission alone. He looked that determined— despite all the pain. It was better that he stayed with Lassiter where he could keep an eye on him. "All right," Henry relented. He got Lassiter's clothes and pressed them into his hands, watching him take slow steps towards the bathroom. While Lassiter dressed, Henry checked the door. The hallway was filled with doctors and nurses. Henry huffed, and ran a hand across his head. He went to the journal and ripped out a blank page from the back. He scrawled a quick note— hoping the discovery would come sooner rather than later. He put the note with picture of Shawn, both partially hidden under the journal.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Lassiter asked, emerging from the bathroom. He moved slowly and stiffly. He tossed the hospital gown and sling, which he'd taken off before dressing, on the bed and smoothed his jacket. He flexed his wrist with a barely concealed wince. Henry noticed that Lassiter looked much thinner, more gaunt than usual. He had dark circles under both eyes, and the bruises and cuts— even though some were still covered with gauze— stood out.

"I'm going to have to _take_ you," Henry told him, wincing a little. "Is it okay for you to hear that?"

Lassiter nodded, grateful that Henry understood. "It can work as an official story— but of course, I wouldn't press charges."

"Thanks, kid," Henry said. "But Karen will probably still stick me in lockup." He wished Lassiter still didn't look so awful. Granted, his mouth and eyes were no longer as swollen; Lassiter could actually open his left eye all the way, but the black bruise still circled it. The various other bruises on his face not covered by bandages were fading but the one across his neck still looked nasty. He looked out again. "When it's clear, we're going to have to hurry. Are you sure you're up for it?"

"Yeah. My body's probably not, but I need to see my attackers face to face as much as we need to get Shawn back." He wanted to close his eyes and not see their demons staring at him anymore, deep in the darkest space of his mind. He stared at Henry for a moment. "My old partner— the one I worked on the Roman Cavaliere case with— he used to call me 'kid'."

"Does it bother you?" Henry asked distractedly. "I guess I didn't realize I was—"

Lassiter shook his head. "No, that's not it. You sort of remind me of him— I think you're almost the same age. He might be older," Lassiter added when Henry made a face. He noticed Henry opening drawers, checking around. "What are you doing?"

Henry shrugged. "I figure you should probably wrap something around your head— because you honestly still look like hell."

Lassiter nodded, remembering the quick glance he'd caught of himself in the mirror. He tried not to stare too long at the bruising. "I know. You think we're going to get stopped?"

"I have no idea. Some of those nurses will recognize me— I've been here everyday since you—" He coughed, opening another drawer. Footie socks. Those weren't going to help. "I mean, if we do get stopped, you think they'd believe you were just taking a walk?"

"I'd say no." Lassiter sank down on the bed. Standing up wasn't so good; he was starting to get queasy. The room was tilting again, like before when he'd first stood up. "Would it help if I took the bandages off?"

"I doubt it. You know, this is probably the dumbest plan two grown men have ever thought up."

"Nah," Lassiter said, taking in a careful breath. "You're forgetting about Shawn and Guster."

Henry stopped and offered a sideways glance. "I think _they'd_ even tell us to scrap it." He found a roll of tan gauze in the last drawer, and tossed it to Lassiter.

Henry checked the door again. The hallway was still too full; they had to take the elevator because Henry figured Lassiter could pass out trying the stairs. Lassiter had the unwrapped the gauze from its roll, but eyed it strangely. "This will make me less noticeable?" he asked skeptically.

Henry rolled his eyes. "You have a better plan?"

Lassiter nodded. "You stay here, and I'll go." His voice was strained, but he was serious. His face was flushed with the exertion of remaining upright, even though he was sitting.

Henry twisted his mouth, his forehead pinching with annoyance. "I take it back— that's a more asinine idea than the other one."

"It's not—"

"How would you even get there?" Henry interrupted.

Lassiter shook his head, which made it swim. He touched his forehead. "Taxi. Hitchhiking. Doesn't matter. I swore I'd get Shawn back— whatever it takes. They want— me. They took him because of me."

"Shut up," Henry said in a biting tone. "Talk about a suicide mission, Carlton."

Lassiter shrugged carefully but didn't say anymore. He could feel Henry eyeing him, though he was staring at the gauze, trying to figure out the best way to wrap it around his head. "There's no need to be reckless," Henry said quietly. "There are people who care about your survival." Lassiter continued to stare at the gauze until Henry took it from his hands. "Believe it," he said, startling Lassiter into looking up.

Carlton nodded. "Thanks," he said nearly inaudibly.

"You need help with this?" Henry asked, seeming to consider exactly the best way to put it on. Lassiter nodded again. Henry worked quickly, using it to cover all the bandages, and Lassiter's black eye. Lassiter adjusted some of the gauze, making sure the ends were tucked in.

"I look worse, don't I?" Lassiter asked. Henry seemed to biting back a smile.

"You look like an extra for a mummy movie," Henry mumbled, turning back to the door. There were less people, but this wasn't going to work unless the hallway was empty. _Crap_, he thought, his gaze washing over Carlton, who looked green, taking in swallow breaths. "Are you _sure_ you can walk?" Henry asked for likely the fourth time.

As if to prove he was fine, Lassiter started to push himself up. It hurt his ribs, but he swallowed the pain, the strain pulling at the corners of his eyes.

Of course, he wasn't fooling Henry. "Sit. You can get up after the hallway is clear." Lassiter sat, gathering up the necessary strength. Henry looked him over, trying to think this through. What he was about to do was something he warned Shawn about a hundred times or more not to— When you're in trouble, you went to the cops. You didn't try to handle things on your own. Yet here he was, about to practically abduct an injured cop and go take a ransom to his son's kidnappers— all without notifying any police. At least not directly.

"You're not— having second thoughts, are you?" Lassiter panted, pressing back on his arms.

Henry frowned. "This goes way past second thoughts."

"Forget them— we've got your son to rescue."

Henry admired Carlton's bravery— or stupidity. He glanced out the hallway and noticed it was empty. "We gotta go." Lassiter nodded, standing. A wash of nausea hit him, so he closed his eyes until it passed.

"Lean on me, okay?" Henry instructed Lassiter, who was a little unstable on his feet. He threw an arm around Lassiter's shoulder blades. "Just till we get out of here," he added, when the detective hesitated. "The last thing we need is you to pass out." He sighed. "Then I might actually get charged with kidnapping."

Lassiter smirked in spite of the situation. Fiery pain edged up each rib, but he bit his top lip and let Henry guide him.

Getting out the door was a little rough, but Henry kept a tight hold on Lassiter's shoulders, willing him silently to hold onto any lightheadedness until they were out of sight. He was wary, his heart racing; but he knew he couldn't afford to get stopped by security— no matter what, he had to get to Shawn. Shawn was depending on him.

* * *

Henry managed to walk Lassiter outside to his truck without anyone stopping them. Lassiter bent his head forward, keeping his eyes on the floor, counting the colored panels in the linoleum. There may have been a few close calls, but Henry managed to deflect them easily. Instead of going through the lobby, they were able to sneak out through the waiting area for the emergency room; Henry figured there would be less opportunity for inquiry there. They went slowly; Henry moved his arm from Lassiter's shoulders to his armpits when he started to slump. Lassiter protested but Henry ignored him, telling him if he was going to do this, he would have to keep his mouth shut and follow Henry's rules. He helped Lassiter into the front seat and then drove to his bungalow.

"Wait here," Henry said. He got out of the truck and went in for the documents. Now that they were away from the hospital, Lassiter unwrapped the gauze and tossed it onto the seat. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat.

Henry returned ten minutes later with an arm load of stuff. He got in the truck and handed a couple bags of ice to Lassiter, which he gratefully pressed against his ribs. Henry slipped two bottles of water in the truck's cup holders near the radio and then tossed Lassiter a couple Power Bars and a bottle of aspirin. "Eat those," Henry told him. "I know they taste like crap, but you need the energy."

Henry put the packet which he'd stuck inside an old brief case, on the seat between them and handed Lassiter a .45. "Henry," Lassiter breathed, eyeing the gun.

"It's loaded, but I don't have any more clips. You're going to need it," Henry said. "If I have a gun, they'll just take it away from me. They don't know I'm bringing you—"

"Unless they're watching us," Lassiter murmured.

Henry shot him a sharp glance. "Are you changing your mind?"

Lassiter shook his head. "No way in hell. I'm responsible for Shawn—"

Henry turned him. "And I'm responsible for you."

Lassiter's mouth opened. "Henry—"

Henry shook his head. "I'm responsible for you," he repeated. He'd assumed responsibility the moment he took over Shawn's case. Lassiter started to protest again but Henry cut him off. "Those bastards messed with you way too long. And now they have Shawn. If they hurt him—" He punched the steering wheel, taking a few seconds to calm down. "You can look at it this way— I basically stole you from of the hospital without telling anyone, so I'm responsible. But you should know that—" He swallowed hard, trying not to get choked up. After a moment he managed, "Do you understand what I trying to say? You've been looking out for Shawn these past three years, helping him get out of bad situations. He'd probably never admit it, but he's grateful and so am I. I just— I can't stand to see these jerks hurt you anymore."

Lassiter let out a small gasp. Again, he felt undeserving of good people and what they were willing to do for him. He studied the floor in front of him. "Thank you," he said almost inaudibly to the floor.

There were other things Henry wanted to say, like how he knew Lassiter only needed this kind of protection while he was in trouble, that he was strong enough to handle himself usually, but he couldn't put those thoughts into words. Lassiter shouldn't be going with him; he was injured; and Henry knew how bad it was going to look when Vick realized Lassiter was missing again. But he knew that one of the reasons he'd agreed with Lassiter was that he had no idea what situation they would be walking into. Still, there had been no mention of Shawn's freedom; only more threats of what bad things could happen. What was to stop the kidnappers from shooting both of them dead upon Henry's arrival?

_Lassiter._ He was Shawn and Henry's only hope to survive. Both of them understood this; Lassiter knew Henry wasn't trying to deceive him. But he'd meant what he'd said— he would be going with or without Henry, attempting a rescue that was not only dangerous but stupid. But he'd made a promise— he knew if he had to trade his life for Spencer's, he would. That kid, for all his crazy antics, had a gift— not a psychic gift, but one for helping people. Lassiter thought, _He has to keep at that— helping._

"Start eating one of those," Henry told him, breaking up his thoughts. "It burns all the way down, then hits your stomach like lead— you feel like you're going to die."

Lassiter made a face. "Sounds great." He unwrapped one, uncaring of its flavor.

As Henry started up the truck, he eyed Lassiter take a small bite. "When's the last time you ate anything, by the way?" Carlton frowned in his direction but didn't say a word. "That's what I thought," Henry murmured. Backing up the truck, Henry heard the smallest sound come from his passenger. He tapped the brake and stole a glance at him, not completely sure he'd actually heard what he'd thought. He was more than surprised to a catch the thin smile on Lassiter's lips.

"You're remarkably similar to your son," Lassiter observed, trying to let go of the smile.

"What?" Henry asked, raising his eyebrows.

Lassiter didn't comment further, instead, taking the opportunity to take another bite of the Power Bar. The lump of it in his mouth made him grimace. "Why do you have these things?" he asked, trying to swallow its strange consistency that chewing didn't seem to have any effect on.

Henry frowned slightly. "They were a Father's Day gift. Shawn told me I could use them to help get back in shape." He rolled his eyes but caught himself. "That's Shawn for you." He steeled his eyes on the road, only thinking about the drive in front of them.

They drove in silence for a little while. As Lassiter reached for a bottle of water, a jolt of pain shot through his ribs. He took in a few shallow breaths, but managed to get the water into his hand. He swallowed only small mouthfuls at a time, annoyed that the chalky taste of the energy bar wasn't fading. He popped three aspirin with another sip. It was really starting to hit him what they were doing— everything in his training, as well as Henry's, was trying to make him resist this plan. You never went into a situation without back-up. There was a reason for that saying, safety in numbers. He sighed. He hadn't meant to ask the question aloud, but realized he had when Henry stepped hard on the brake, jerking the truck to a stop with a small squeal. He pulled quickly to the side of the road.

"_Now_ you want to ask what the hell we think we're doing?" Henry repeated, staring at him incredulously.

Lassiter flushed, feeling stupid. "I— we're cops, Henry. Well, we were—"

"Now you're getting sense about you?" Henry shot back. "Where was this sense when I was trying to tell you not to leave the hospital?"

"I'm not changing my mind," Lassiter cut in. "I just— I don't know how well I can protect you and Shawn— once we get there." When Henry asked if it was because of injury or fear, Lassiter shook his head. "I've been off my game since this whole thing— since I was abducted."

Henry stopped him. "Carlton— you've had your head messed with, and you've been hurt physically, but they haven't touched your morals or your natural instincts for being a cop— doing what's right. I know I helped you walk out of there, but you offered your protection for Shawn without any fear. Would you really have gone for him yourself if I had left you there?"

Lassiter nodded. "Absolutely." The thought of his own safety hadn't even crossed his mind.

"Without telling anyone— Juliet or Karen or any of the force?"

Lassiter looked sheepish, but nodded again.

"Then think of me as your back-up, kid. Your partner— like you said." Henry sighed. "Karen's going to kill us both, you know."

"As long as we get Shawn back safe, then I don't care what happens to me. Your kid— he's saved my life through this, more than once."

Henry took his foot off the brake and they started moving again. He tried to digest Lassiter's words, and felt a swell of pride for his son— he knew he should give Shawn more credit. After this, he promised he would work on it.

"Henry," Lassiter began, as the truck took a sharp left, "if anything happens in there, anything that—" He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of pain rolled through his body; he gritted his teeth hard. Taking a shaky breath, he continued. "What I'm saying is that if it's best, you need to take Shawn and run like hell. The most important thing is getting him safe."

Henry glanced at him, his face tight. He focused on the road; this thought had crossed his mind already but it caused him tremendous guilt. "Absolutely not," he said in a low voice, then repeated it as a snap after Lassiter questioned him. "We're _not_ leaving you behind— regardless if you can handle yourself against those creeps. I don't doubt that you can, but— you're not in the best shape." He huffed. "Shawn would kill me if something happened to you. He'd be pissed all the work he'd put in to help you— accuse me of mucking up his case. And then it would be World War Four— again. Nope, can't let that happen." Henry turned his head sharply. "And I'd never be able to forgive myself."

Lassiter's mouth dropped open, but he tried again. "But— you two need to stay alive—"

"So do you. You're needed here, kid. Detective," Henry amended. "The SBPD needs good cops like you. Real cops. Believe me, I know these things." He didn't look at Lassiter but he figured he'd been stunned to silence. "Besides, this is not up for discussion," Henry told him firmly, echoing Lassiter's earlier words.

Lassiter sat back, sorting out his thoughts. He'd checked the safety on the .45 and tucked it into his jacket pocket, missing his holster. In spite of what Henry said— and Lassiter was more than grateful— he hoped that should it come down to it, Henry would get Shawn out of there. After that, they could call for help— whatever, as long as they were safe. He tried to map out a plan in his head, but it seemed futile— no matter what, it would be the abductors against him. They'd taken him, held him against his will, forced him to be an accessory to crimes. And instead of running in the opposite direction, he was going back to them. Lassiter, though he worked hard to keep his face blank, was terrified, but he knew he had to do this. He had no illusions that he would turn out a hero. _Please, just let me save the Spencers, that's all I ask._

_* * *_

"Dispatch, Officer Hamilton speaking. All right, ma'am, please, slow down."

McNab raised an eyebrow with curiosity, catching Hamilton try to write something down but then give up.

"I think she's not available at the moment— can you hold? I understand, ma'am. Please . . . let me see."

* * *

"It has? I have?" Greg asked, looking around.

Karen nodded, looking at her detectives. "It's not official— but this is a start."

"Chief, really?" Juliet asked tentatively.

The four of them were startled by a loud knock on the door. "Come in," Vick called, annoyed at the intrusion.

Officer Hamilton leaned in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but there's a nurse on the phone who says it's adamant she speaks with you. She says it's life or death."

Vick frowned, but told him to patch it through. Hamilton disappeared, and less than ten seconds later, her phone rang. She answered it.

"Chief Vick, this is Nurse Anna Scallia from Santa Barbara General."

"Yes?" Vick said curtly.

"I'm calling you in regards to Carlton Lassiter—"

"What's wrong with him?" Vick demanded suddenly, making Juliet's heart tumble.

"I went in for rounds and found that he was gone. He can't be located. We've looked—"

Vick's eyes widened. "He's missing? You _lost_ him?"

"I thought you'd want to know," she said, sounding exasperated. "But yes, he is missing."

"We'll be right there." She hung up the phone, taking in a deep breath as she set it back on its cradle.

"Chief, what's—"

"That was the hospital. Carlton's not in his room— they can't find him."

"What? How does that happen?" Samuelson asked, incredulous.

"It's happened before," Vick muttered. "He pulled a disappearing act just before his arrest."

"But Chief— he's hurt too badly to leave there on his own," Juliet pointed out. An uneasy silence fell over them.

"Follow me," Vick said. "We're going down there, right now." She quickly thanked Greg, and instructed Officer March to take his statement. She sent a couple officers to check out Lassiter's apartment.

They zipped to the hospital. On the way, Vick called Henry but was perturbed that his home phone rang off the hook. Where was Henry? Shouldn't he be waiting by the phone in case Shawn's abductor called? They put on their gloves in the car— fully expecting they would walking into the scene of a crime. Juliet went to the nurses' station and spoke to a few while Vick and Samuelson were ushered into Lassiter's empty room. His hospital gown was on the bed, and so was the sling.

After she entered the room, Juliet checked the drawers where she had seen Henry put the clothes. Juliet noticed the clothes she had brought him were gone, except for the blue tie, which was hanging on the towel rack in the bathroom. The extra pairs of socks and boxers were on the floor under the sink. Was it possible Lassiter could have been abducted? They did a quick sweep, searching for any signs that told them Lassiter may have been forcibly taken. They didn't find anything obvious; Vick couldn't believe Carlton was missing again— seemingly without a trace.

McNab called in once they'd done a sweep of the apartment. "He's not there?" Vick repeated. She sighed harshly. "All right— hang around another fifteen minutes in case he shows— then get back to the station."

"Mr. Spencer's not here," Juliet said, looking around.

"What do you mean?" Vick asked, disbelieving Lassiter was not here in his hospital bed. Two days ago he'd woken— but she couldn't imagine him standing let alone walking out of here— completely unnoticed.

"The nurses out there say Mr. Spencer has been here every day visiting since Lassiter was brought in," Juliet said.

"Every day?" Vick raised an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. What was going through Henry's head?

"Holy shit," Samuelson blurted out, stunned. He snatched a small square object from the night stand; a white sheaf of paper fluttered in the air.

"What?" Juliet said, stepping towards him, and when she saw what it was, she snatched it from his hands. "Shawn!" She couldn't believe it— proof of Shawn's kidnapping— and another one of her friends bound and gagged, his eyes wild and scared.

Samuelson swooped and grabbed the paper from the floor. He scanned it.

Juliet turned to Vick and pushed the Polaroid into Vick's hands. "There's something on the back," Juliet said, catching the glimpse of words between Vick's gloved fingers. Vick turned it over and read the note on the back aloud.

_"__'Met him in a hotel beneath ground. Tell me that he's missing. Tell me this is one for Lollipop Gestapo.'_ What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked sharply. Juliet shrugged.

"What about this?" Samuelson eyed the paper. He handed it to Vick, who read it silently with narrowed eyes. "Why is this picture in Lassiter's room?" Samuelson voiced.

Juliet was about to answer when the journal on the bedside table caught her eye. She went towards it and picked it up. Some loose pages fluttered out; she bent down and picked them up.

"What is that, O'Hara?" Vick asked, tearing her eyes from the picture of Shawn.

"This journal— I gave this to Carlton for his last birthday." She opened the first page and showed the inscription she'd written to her partner. She was puzzled as to what it could be doing here; she certainly hadn't noticed it during her other visits. Swallowing hard with a pounding heart, she opened it to the first few pages. Her mouth dropped open as she read.

"What's this?" Samuelson asked, easing the loose pages from her grasp. He scanned them with a furrowed brow.

"O'Hara, what does that say?" Vick asked, reaching out for the journal. "Anything useful?"

Juliet looked her, her mouth and eyes wide open. It was unmistakably Carlton's handwriting. She looked pale with shock. She started reading the first entry aloud.

_"'We were talking, everything was fine, civil and then I just— I got this sense that I was being watched. It was hard to breathe, and I couldn't make the feeling pass. I told Dr. Rhodes about the images I saw when I blacked out in the station . . . The dream/ memory I got at the station when I was being interrogated was a fragment. Right before the room got fuzzy, I think Samuelson had asked me if I could be a killer but just not remember it. It was just a routine question; I don't know why I had the reaction I did. Could I be guilty??? I know it looks that way but I just . . . feel in my gut that I couldn't have. Wouldn't have committed murder. I saw this gray blob and I reached out to touch it . . . and it turned red, it was all congealed like gelatin. I can't believe I was really unconscious for ten minutes. It was really hard to wake up.'_

_"'Anyway, Dr. Rhodes was writing something down and then, I'm not so clear what happened. Felt I was moving in slow motion, the smallest sounds in the room were abruptly earsplitting. I saw black tar sliding down the walls, then I was curled up under this rushing of water. I saw white, then heard the woman's laugh, the same one who has been haunting me in my memories and has been appearing in person all over— at the station, outside my apartment. I heard seagulls screeching, and then another memory came back. I guess it's no wonder really why I passed out.'"_

Vick and Samuelson were frozen in place, listening. "This is Lassiter's handwriting," Juliet confirmed, her mouth going dry.

Vick took the journal from Juliet and studied it. She recalled Dr. Rhodes telling her Lassiter had fainted during their session— _these were the things he experienced then?_

"What about these?" Samuelson asked, handing Juliet the loose papers.

She nodded. "Definitely his penmanship. Oh!" She passed some of them back. She worked to moisten her mouth and then took a deep breath and read, _"'Later, when I . . . got to the part when the guy says to Donia,"Your geocatoelow tried to save his life with that shirt," I tried to think it through clearly but I literally started seeing red; I think I passed out. Got this weird memory (??):'_

_"'Standing on a beach, barefoot. Daylight. Sun was out— cloudy? Waves crashed— the water was blue-gray, seagulls were calling. Ocean air wafting into nostrils, then fumbles of human voice wove into my hearing of the birds' caw caw caw. A roar, no, it was a bark. Or a snap. A crack? Loud, very, very loud. I jumped, heard a muffled cry, then gurgling. A hand grabbed my hand, forced it around the shape of an object, solid, black, hotÑ familiar. (Why?? How??) I dropped it, and rushed forward, trying to stop all this red-black blood— blood??? All over the sand. A person was gurgling.'" _

"This must be the that first memory, or whatever," Samuelson said of the loose-leaf pages where Lassiter had written about returning with Cybil, covered in blood. He paraphrased it. "Looks like he wrote these words phonetically," he commented. He shuffled through them, finding Lassiter's account of Cybil and Notte preparing him for the theft. "Holy crap."

"What?" Juliet asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Eerie, much?" Adam said in low voice. It really echoed some Motgemery's earlier points. He read Lassiter's account aloud.

_"'Not sure where we were, but I was standing with two men. I had been dressed in head to toe black, including gloves. I had those black jeans on that I woke up in on the beach. I tried to move, to run, but one of them yelled, 'Stop!' and I stopped. I tried to move again but I felt frozen. Couldn't move. Like when the girl told me not to yell as she cut me.'_

_"'We'll need him immediately for the security clearance,' a man said. 'These aren't the old times— we cannot just come and go as well please. And if we encounter guards— we have our 'undercover cop' who doesn't want his face seen due to an investigation.'_

_"'Hope they buy that.'_

_'"They will. The last thing they'd want is their company experiencing bad press.' The man sounded sarcastic. 'It's a pity we can't better predict the effects.' His words measured and well pronounced. He was older and not as tall as the others, with the exception of the girl (how do I know that??). This man was a shark circling me.' _

_"'What if he causes us trouble inside?' the younger man asked.' _

_"'He won't, Sybil (Cybil?),' the older man said. The next thing I know this guy— Sybil? was gagging me with a cloth. I tried to take it off; Sybil tried to threaten me, but I kept trying. Sybil was six feet tall and muscular.'_

_"'The older man (he had these hard brown eyes) ordered me to stop, and I stopped trying to take the gag off. (Why??) He grabbed my injured hand and pulled on it. He told me,'That stays in your mouth, understand. You will not speak, not to anyone. You will not ask for help. No one knows where you are or what happened to you.' I tried to speak and he slapped me and said again, 'You will not speak.' _

_"'The other guy— Sybil?— said, 'What if he does, what if he gets someone's attention?' _

"Oh, my god," Juliet breathed. "That's— horrible." _Carlton_. She felt cold inside, her skin flaring red with anger.

Vick was flipping pages in the journal furiously. She turned to the last entry, and her face went white. "Listen to this," she said urgently. "I think Shawn may have written this." She read from the list Shawn had made summing up who they knew was involved. Samuelson and Juliet listened with growing horror.

_"'Two kidnappers. (Both wore masks. Both men. Lassiter thinks one was a little shorter than he is; Lassiter is 6'1") Sybil/ Cybil is one. Notta/ Notte is one.'_

_"'The woman. Last name Notte? Donia Notte? (Five feet tall, petite, attractive, dark hair, Caucasian, mid twenties?)' _

_"'The fake locksmith. (Six feet tall, lean, muscular, Caucasian, mid-thirties, Glasses, real??) Sybil. Kidnapper. Man arguing with Donia in Lassiter's memory when the woman— Donia— cut Lassie's stomach. Real killer/ murderer. Shot Max Sweets in front of Lassiter— Lassiter tried to save Sweets' life by holding the red t-shirt to the wound. Lassiter = sole? witness to Max Sweets' murder.'_

_"'Mr. Bernise. The same one of Bernise Locksmith Company? A fake company? (Description unknown)'_

_"'The man who threatened Lassiter in the hospital. Told him if he talks to the police 'something bad is going to happen.' He sprained Lassiter's wrist that night. (Five foot eleven, fifties, Caucasian, brown hair with gray sideburns, brown mustache, curled scar under one eye, brown, leathery complexion, stocky?) Notte. Kidnapper. Might be 'the boss'. Told Lassie 'You will pay dearly' Very scary to Lassie.' _

_"'The man who grabbed me (Shawn) in the alley. (Description unknown. Didn't see his face. He's strong, probably big meathead type.) Martey? Huge hulk, 'skull crusher' hands, Lassie remembers. Tall, over six one.'_

_"'Martey and Donia drugged Lassie? Just before they dumped him on the beach/ let him go? Chloroform??' _

_"'Max Sweets involved with Lassie's kidnappers? Lassie said a couple of months ago, he did some routine security check up with North Coast Pharmaceuticals and they made him an official security badge with his picture and SBPD rank on it. It gave him instant access to secure and private areas. He gave it back to them after the routine check up thingy was done. Max Sweets = North Coast Employee. Theory: Sweets found Lassiter's NCP badge . . . maybe he was working for them— Notte and the rest, they were paying him to steal the badge . . . ? But Sweets had no idea they'd abducted Lassiter and forced him to steal something from Central Coast . . . He threatened to turn them in, get help for Lassiter? He was a liability? So they shot him? (And framed Lassie . . . Sybil shot Sweets and then made Lassie take the gun so it looked like he did it. Lassie couldn't fight back because of whatever they drugged him with when they kidnapped him (that unknown in the syringe— besides the Rohypnol) controlled him.'"_

It was an impressive amount of effort, time and energy. And it linked up— the descriptions of the men and this last paragraph, especially— to the DVD they had just seen, as well as the account Samuelson had found.

"He was telling the truth. This whole time," Vick breathed. "Of course he was." She flipped through the journal, pausing to read incidents here and there. Even if she hadn't seen the DVD, and this was the only piece of evidence to go on, there was no denying that this Notte was real— and had done terrible things.

"Shawn was helping him— now they're both missing," Juliet said. "Shawn's been kidnapped— and they may have taken Lassiter— again." She inhaled sharply. _Is that where Henry Spencer might be— getting in contact with Shawn's abductors? All alone? And where the hell was her injured partner?_

"You know, Shawn Spencer asked me for a description of this locksmith," Adam recalled.

"What?" Vick asked. "Shawn? Why?"

"He told me it had to do with his father's fishing equipment— trying to convince him to invest in a good locksmith company." Samuelson sighed. "Lassiter had seemed upset— I guess I ignored it. Thought it was general unease."

"Why was Carlton upset, I mean—" Juliet began, trying to collect her thoughts.

Adam shook his head. "I wondered when he had the time to call a locksmith; the look on his face seemed to tell me he hadn't." He frowned. "The guy claimed he had a work order, from Lassiter."

Vick shook her head slowly. What Shawn had told Samuelson was obviously a lie. "When was this, Detective? When Shawn asked you?"

He mulled it over. "It was that same night— after I'd brought Lassiter back to start his house arrest— that evening, around 8 or so." Huh. He hadn't thought much about it at the time, but now it did seem odd. "That locksmith was a fake," Samuelson said, feeling ill. "He had a killer changing his lock."

"We didn't know," Vick said tightly, reading the entry about the night Lassiter was attacked in the hospital to herself. She got chills, especially since she had no idea where Lassiter was; now there were three people missing. She was angered to learn how badly this Notte had hurt Carlton— both physically and mentally it seemed.

_I was sleeping . . . hospital. I'd talked to Chief Vick earlier, told her what I remembered. Not sure how late it was, but I woke up to an unfamiliar figure standing in the doorway. At first I wasn't lucid and thought maybe it was a nurse or a doctor but the figure didn't act like a nurse. And the person didn't have any of that medical equipment nurses have to check your vitals. It was a man, stocky, maybe five foot eleven, fifties, with dark hair, maybe. His skin was leathery like a mask. His sideburns, a touch of gray. Under his right eye, a small curled scar. A small brown mustache. He pulled the nurse's call button away from me._

Vick froze. From Lassiter's description, this was one of the men on the DVD— the one holding Max Sweets at gunpoint. _Notte_. She took in a breath which she held while she continued to read.

_"Who are you?" I demanded, and he wrapped his hand around my throat._

_"Oh, you don't remember me," he said in a low voice. "That is good, very good. You are quite persistent, aren't you? That is a reason why we chose you." Lassiter had punctuated these two statements with many question marks._

_When I tried to speak he twisted my already injured wrist . . . the one that had been hurt when my apartment was broken into. Did he know??? How???_

_"You ask too many questions, you did ask too many then too," the man told me. "You are not very good at listening." More question marks._

_The man continued, "You were told specifically not to talk to the police, Detective. Mr. Bernise will be most displeased by your insubordination."_

"'You were told specifically not to talk to the police,'" Vick repeated aloud. A million thoughts flashed before her, including one of the details from Shawn's list.

Lassiter had made a note about the Bernise Locksmith Company here_. _Vick took the pink carbon copy from the pages and pulled the envelope from where it was taped to the pages and handed them to Samuelson.

"This is the receipt the man showed me," Samuelson confirmed. "I actually signed it." He passed it to Juliet before opening the envelope. Four shiny brass keys tumbled out into his palm.

Vick explained what Lassiter had written regarding these keys. She read aloud, _"'I realized these 'new' keys from the 'locksmith' matched the one from the white envelope— the copy they'd given me of my apartment key already. I knew I didn't call a locksmith. I tried to call the 'customer service number' on the receipt, but the phone just rang. Then there was an 'out-of-order' message.'"_

She read the rest of the entry quietly with her fist clenched to her side.

_He kept twisting my wrist every time I tried to say something. I didn't realize until later that he must of sprained it. He said that I had "walked away wearing all that blood" and I wonder if he means that t-shirt that I was wearing when I woke up on the beach. He yanked my wrist again and said, "Very bad." Then he told me to close my eyes and count to 100, and tightened his grip on my neck and wrist. I guess I passed out because when I woke up he was gone. _

"Didn't McNab say Shawn freaked out when he touched Shawn's arm the other day?" Samuelson began, turning towards Juliet.

Juliet's eyes widened. "Yes— so he'd been attacked already." She huffed. "I wish he'd come to us."

Vick turned towards them. "We made it— I made it— impossible," she amended. She shook her head, hoping to dispel past thoughts. Criminals were loose, and people she cared about were in danger. "Let's go— Samuelson, I need you to get back to the station. We'll drop you there. We've got find out if there are any known addresses for this Notte." Vick handed him the journal for a reference, and gave Juliet the picture of Shawn.

"What about me?" Juliet asked. She studied the picture; Shawn had never looked so scared or helpless. She had to do what she'd promised Henry Spencer— get Shawn back safe.

"We're going to county lockup," Vick said. She glanced at the note Henry had written again, and then directed they move.


	23. Chapter 22: Come A Little Bit Closer

**Chapter Twenty Two: Come A Little Bit Closer, Let Me Look At You **

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Disclaimer: I do not own references to The Vincent Black Shadow's _This Road Is Going Nowhere. _I do not own Tilt-A-Whirl or Polaroid. I also do not own references to the Greek myth of Persephone.

Author's Note: I want to thank all my reviewers again, and again. I'm very appreciative and so happy happy happy you are still enjoying my story. I thought I might be the only one interested in reading it. Your reviews are wonderful! All of your feedback really means so much to me. :D Thank you!

This chapter contains much whumpage, just so you know. There is also a little bit of suggestive material, but as I promised, no _Law & Order: SVU_-ness.

Italian Vocabulary: (which I credit to wordreference dot com): _Indisturbato_ = Clean, (without interference); _Le sensitivo_ = The psychic; _Si_ = Yes; _Allora morte_ = Then death; _Caro_ = Darling (masculine); _Droga_ = Drug; _Silenzio_ = Silence, quiet; (_Una) bella dormita_ = (A) good night's sleep; _Ragazza _= Girl;_ La malavita_ = The underworld; _Non riuscire a togliersi dalla testa_ = Unable to stop thinking about; _La sua voce fastidiosa mi irrita davvero_ = Her stupid voice is bothering me; _Monella_ = Brat (feminine); _Lasci_ = You release; _Bambino = _Child, immature person, (masculine):

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_* * *_

"I want APBs put out on Henry Spencer, Lassiter, and any and all of these suspects Lassiter's described in here," Vick told Samuelson, tossing her hand in the direction of the journal. "Have McNab re-watch that DVD and pull descriptions off of it of those two men— I'm certain Lassiter or Shawn has taken notes in here of who they are— and what else they've done."

"Yes, Chief," Samuelson said.

"And for god's sake, don't let this journal get passed around to the whole station, unless it's absolutely necessary." She gave Samuelson a withering look which he seemed to take to heart. She was still fuming about the disaster of the photographs. Part of her still wanted to smack whichever one of her officers was responsible for the leak, but she rationalized that it was good to have the entire precinct worried over Lassiter's condition— especially if those bastards who'd hurt him had their hands on him again.

"I want you to have any known addresses for me as soon as we get back."

"I will, Chief," Adam promised. He got out in front of the station, the journal in hand. Juliet took the wheel, heading them in the direction of the county lockup. Vick was on the phone the whole way there, using her special brand of negotiating to ensure their visit.

_* * *_

Gus was more than surprised when Chief Vick and Detective O'Hara showed up to see him. Vick looked furious. Without offering any sort of greeting, she slapped a piece of paper down on the table in front of him. Gus's eyes gladly strayed to it, anything to not have to look in her eyes.

_it's shawn. gone to look. l with me. lb b 2311. bg knows stuff. —hs._

"What is this?" Gus asked, confused. He read the note over again; why did it look like it had been scrawled in some code? For a moment— brief— Gus thought it was some kind of ransom note or maybe it was sent to Lassiter by those people who had abducted him. All he knew about them was that the girl's last name may be Notte, but that there were others.

When Vick noticed Gus was genuinely confused, she softened her tone slightly, transferring the stress to her face, which made her appear more ghoulish to him than before. "Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say this was a confession from Henry Spencer, saying he's kidnapped Lassiter. Possibly that he's planning to exchange him for Shawn," Vick said. "And that you apparently know something about it."

"W— What?" Gus's eyes bulged. Was she serious? She looked serious— damn well. "What do you mean, 'Mr. Spencer kidnapped Lassiter'?" he repeated slowly.

"Lassiter's missing from the hospital— again," Juliet sighed, worry making her clench her teeth. "And Mr. Spencer was—"

"Protecting him," Gus blurted out, before he could hold his tongue.

"What?" Juliet and Vick burst out at the same moment.

Gus's lips trembled for a moment, then he starting speaking. He told them every single thing he knew, from what he and Shawn had been trying to do for the detective, to everything that had happened that may have deterred any normal private investigator— especially one who wasn't getting paid— though apparently, not Shawn. He told them as much as he had learned before he'd been arrested, and including what Henry had told him, about Shawn's abduction and the ransom call Henry had received. He told them what the ransom was, and why the abductors considered it so important.

After he was done speaking, both women stared at him, stunned or shocked, he wasn't sure. In the stretch of silence, he added, "Shawn basically forced Lassiter to accept his help. The guy—" Gus shook his head. "You should have seen him when he caught sight of this woman watching him across the street from his apartment. His skin was so ashy— like, shuddering. Completely terrified. I've never seen Lassiter like that— it was a shock to my system, for sure." He paused. "I knew those results were important. They just come at such a high cost," he sighed. "If you really think that Mr. Spencer—" Gus pressed his palms against the table somberly. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any idea where Mr. Spencer could be going. I'm been out of the loop since my arrest," he added bitterly.

"Greg Motgemery came forward, Mr. Guster," Vick told him. "He told us about the Rohypnol." She told him briefly about the DVD and Greg's explanation.

Gus thought about it, nodding. "That would explain a lot."

Juliet passed Gus the picture of Shawn. He accepted it with a gasp and wide eyes. "Shawn," he whispered. "Oh, god." His friend was still alive— at least, yesterday, he was; Gus was scared for him.

"We found this with the note, and the journal, in Lassiter's room."

"Journal?" Gus asked. He shrugged. He hadn't known about that. "Mr. Spencer didn't say anything about this picture when he was here— only about the ransom call."

"There's some writing on the back— could you take a look?" Juliet asked.

Gus turned the picture over and read through the words. "Huh," he muttered. "They're probably lyrics, like the other notes."

"The other notes?" Vick repeated, trying to recall what she had seen in the journal. She was anguished— it cut her to the core, severing bone. Lassiter had kept silent— humiliated or scared, maybe both. How had Shawn Spencer been able to get the stubborn detective to confide in him? It must have been a challenge— yet Shawn persisted— and succeeded, somehow. It amazed her.

"Yeah— I know about at least two of them." He summed up what Lassiter had said about them, and what Shawn had found out. He read the latest with narrowed eyes. "I don't have any clue what they could mean though— the ones I know about hit Lassiter on some personal level." He related what Shawn had told him about the second note— how disturbed Lassiter had become. "I think Shawn said he found that in Lassiter's car." Gus thought for a few seconds. "When he'd found the tires slashed, that was when he found that note, um." Gus closed his eyes. "I don't remember all the words, exactly, but I think that second one mentioned something about a price you'd have to pay, the stakes up, your odds down."

Juliet nodded to Vick, getting a chill. Vick frowned. She knew what role she had played in this cycle, but she an urge to slap Lassiter's face, demand of him why he thought keeping something like this from her was good for him. She sighed, following the cycle around. She knew exactly why he'd done it.

Gus was still speaking. ". . . can't imagine that Mr. Spencer would really abduct Lassiter. Or convince Lassiter to turn himself over to those— no way. I refuse to believe it." Gus sighed, looking at the note again. "This first part says 'it's shawn, gone to look,'" he read. "Maybe Mr. Spencer got another ransom call. Lassiter probably wouldn't want him going alone— after all, these people want to hurt _him_."

"Shawn?" Juliet cut in.

Gus shook his head. "They want to hurt _Lassiter_. They have— and made good on all their threats. They stop anyone who gets in their way." Gus scowled. "Look at me. Look at Shawn."

Juliet and Vick exchanged a hard look.

"If you've been falsely accused, we'll get you out as soon as possible," Vick told him, another surprise.

Gus nodded, not really believing her. "I was— I didn't," he muttered. He looked at the table intently, as if studying a pattern in its surface. "I didn't want to admit it, probably as much as you didn't, but Detective Lassiter's in serious trouble. He was— a blubbering mess, from what I remember. Shawn was right— he needs help." Gus felt the pull of emotion in his throat, behind his eyes. He looked at the picture, then at both of them. "Please, I need you to get my friend back."

"We will," Juliet said with conviction. _Or die trying._ She winced internally at the cliche, but slowly realized she meant it— if that was what it took. It was odd for her to know that about herself. She blushed a little.

Gus studied the note Henry had left so he could keep his eyes down._ Lb b 2311? Libb? Pound b 2311? That doesn't make any sense. What could those numbers mean? Some kind of backwards month and day? No, don't over think it— Mr. Spencer doesn't think in some weird code, so why would he suddenly write one? _Gus looked over the simplicity of the note— all initials for names except for Shawn's— which must mean that finding Shawn was the most important objective mission. _Gone to look. _He gasped under his breath. _Was Henry trying to tell them where he was going? Could lb b be—_ "Leadbetter Beach?" he wondered aloud.

Juliet's eyebrows arched. "What?"

"Here," Gus said, pointing to the letters. "Lb b— Leadbetter Beach? Do you think?" He scrunched up his eyebrows. "Wasn't that where Lassiter was found?"

Vick nodded tightly. Her thoughts churned; could that be where they were now?

* * *

"You ready?" Henry asked as he parked the car. The truck was the only vehicle in the parking lot; the area itself seemed deserted. He no idea how far they would have to walk; he hoped Lassiter was up for it. They'd hit traffic on the highway, so it was relatively close to the window Notte had allotted him to bring the ransom. They may have another half an hour; Henry was both scared to go now and unwilling to wait. _Shawn_.

_If I say no, will you think the worst of me?_ Lassiter thought, moping sweat off his forehead with a loose fist. Everywhere he looked he saw glittering golden sand; he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm ready," he lied. He fumbled with the door handle.

The sun was blinding for a moment. Carlton closed the door, blinking in the bright light. He shielded his eyes, and used the truck to steady himself for a few seconds. He could see the buildings— single story— Henry described, though from here, the parking lot was hidden by trees. It seemed there were places to hide— shadows, trees, in case there were high windows, in case anyone was on the lookout.

"Come on," Henry said over his shoulder. He was clutching the briefcase close to his side, already walking down a thin strip of sidewalk. Lassiter took a few steps from the truck, taking his time to get somewhat in step with Henry. He was pressing his lips together hard, focusing on every step, on the pain; this had got him through before— and on that day when he'd stepped on the glass. Both of them kept to the shadows; Henry kept watch on Lassiter, who was managing to keep near pace with him, though he could hear Lassiter's ragged breath. He refrained from asking Lassiter any questions; neither of them had talked much of a plan on the way here. Henry's anxiety churned in his ears; he felt the minor trace of goosebumps raise on his upper arms. Shawn was somewhere here— relatively close; he focused on Shawn's face, what he remembered from the last night Henry had seen him. That Shawn stepping off the doorstep into the darkness. _I'm going to get you back, kid. I promise. Even if we execute this "plan" in the dumbest way possible. _

Henry stole a sideways glance at Lassiter, whose eyes were mostly seeing the sidewalk and the shadows. He wasn't certain, but he thought Lassiter's face was flushed. What the hell was keeping this man from falling on his face?

"What?" Lassiter asked, tilting his head in Henry's direction.

Henry shook his head, then stopped. "Nothing. Just think you've got the mettle for this."

"Or the idiocy," Lassiter muttered.

"That too," Henry agreed with a thin smile.

Lassiter shrugged. "Comes with the territory. Or, it did. Ow." Lassiter paused, staring hard at Henry, who just got his left triceps with a minor fist of knuckles. "What was that for?"

"You keep talking in the past. Like your life is already over." Henry frowned. He stared straight ahead of them, taking in a breath. "I guess I'd rather not believe this is the end of days."

Lassiter didn't say anything, but looked ahead as well. They were about to cross the line . . . the sidewalk ended and after a patch of sand, they would be face to face with three or four nondescript storage type buildings. There would be less places to hide. This could all fall apart.

But there wasn't any way back; Lassiter wondered if Henry, for all his valid attempts at understanding all of his problems, understood that. This was the only thing Lassiter had left in him— one more possible heroic act, one more rescue mission— he couldn't fail. His old life had fallen; what he thought he knew about everything, everyone— he shook his head._ I can't think those things. Just here. Just now. Got a job to do. God, I hope I don't screw it up. _Lassiter stepped first, three steps into the sand before Henry even moved. They approached from the side; less likely to be noticed at this angle. He could smell the sea air, the grit of sand, the acrid odor of ocean striking his tongue. He swallowed hard, feeling pressure behind his ears, then the darkness came, strong enough to wipe out the sun.

* * *

"Carlton!" Henry whispered fiercely, shaking him. Worry made his hands shake. Lassiter had slumped, knocking Henry off balance. Lassiter's eyes were squeezed tight. Henry caught him with alarm, his heart racing. _What was happening? Was this a dormant reaction?_ There wasn't time; they were getting close to the address Notte had told Henry. At first, Henry thought Lassiter was reacting to pain— he'd been pretty good at concealing it, but Henry knew the meds were wearing off. He knew Lassiter wasn't physically in the kind of shape of a healthy person for this kind of errand. But when Lassiter's body grew limp, Henry knew something else was wrong.

He looked around them quickly, checking to see if anyone had seen them, then looking for a place to hide, in case someone did or could find them. He saw an alcove at the edge of the building they were closest to; it was framed by two walls and within was a brown door with no outside handle. Henry prayed it wasn't about to open any time soon. He tucked the briefcase tightly under his armpit and then wrapped his arms around Lassiter's waist and dragged him towards the alcove; he grunted, pulling the dead weight of Lassiter's thin body, ignoring the scrape of the younger man's knees and shins from across sand, then pavement. It couldn't have taken more than 45 seconds, but Henry glanced about worriedly; this was wide open space. When they were close, the briefcase slipped, thudding dully half on pavement and half on sand. Henry silently cursed, then kicked the briefcase into the sand near a wall on the right side of the alcove. He eased Lassiter to the ground, folding his long legs towards his chest, then sank down on the other side of the alcove. They were completely hidden— unless someone turned the corner or opened the door. Henry heard a scrape of a shoe on the concrete; he held his breath, pressing his back against the wall.

Lassiter's head was down, his eyes closed, but Henry wondered if he could take the chance that Lassiter wouldn't inadvertently alert some stranger to their whereabouts. Quietly, he eased himself along the wall towards Lassiter, pausing every time he heard another scrape. He couldn't tell if the noise was getting closer or if it were hovering, waiting for someone to make a mistake. Henry got close enough to press his hand over Lassiter's mouth, and pressed his forearm against Lassiter's elbows firmly, holding them where they were. He went back to holding his breath and waiting. There was another scrape, and then what seemed like footsteps coming towards them.

* * *

Carlton opened his eyes; he had the sensation he was being carried, slung over someone's shoulder. He could smell the sea air and the sand, ripe with tangles of seaweed, and was struck with a sense of motion sickness. He was having a hard time making out what color the light was; he closed his eyes. The next time he opened them, the space in front of him was unfamiliar. He was indoors, and the left side of his body was cold; he moved slowly, realizing he was on a smooth concrete floor. He pushed himself up, using his left elbow as leverage; joints cracked; his head spun as if he were into his third minute on a carnival Tilt-A-Whirl. He barely suppressed the urge to throw up, swallowing a throat full of bile that burned its way down to his already sour stomach. _Oh, god,_ he thought shakily. _What happened? _

Taking in his surroundings, he saw a large, open space paved with more of the concrete he was lying on, many high windows lined up near the ceiling, directly over his right shoulder, a large dark brown door that seemed like it was opened by a pulley system. Next to it, on the left, could have been a faint gray regular sized door, but it was getting hard to tell.

"We'll need to get him clothing," a man's voice said from somewhere. It was hard to place its exact location. The sound seemed to bounce.

Lassiter couldn't figure out what kind of place this may have been— but it seemed to have been abandoned for some time. The surroundings had the musty, damp smell of disuse. He couldn't see the dust but the air he was breathing, at least here on the floor, was thick with it.

His head thudded; it seemed like the entire building was shaking. Lassiter moved his hands towards his ears; he wondered why his right arm hurt so badly? Had he slept on it? He heard a man's phantom voice yell out, "Goddamn construction!" The man's voice continued, but it was competing with the noise of drills or hammers. Then, silence. He could hear every cycle of his own breath. He gazed over his right shoulder, just in back of the larger door, and made out some cardboard boxes huddling in a dark corner. Squinting, he tried to read the black writing on the side. _Property Of: La Estrella Negra Hotel_.

Carlton rested his face back on the cool floor; he'd thought he was fine to move, but now he wasn't so sure. The words . . . he was having a hard time placing why they seemed familiar. After a few minutes passed, he tried to sort out his thoughts. _How did I get here?_ He raised his head carefully, and wondered why he was only wearing boxers and a t-shirt— his arms, legs, and feet bare. His head was so fuzzy, the inside of his mouth so dry. He heard heavy footsteps perhaps coming towards him; their echoes slammed into walls all around him. The thudding of their cadence was hurting his head; he pressed his hands against his ears again. He blinked upward as a shadow fell over him, the figure of a man standing above him. There wasn't enough light to see his face clearly, or enough time. The figure swung a fist at his cheek. Contact. The back of his head bounced on the concrete. Someone groaned; he couldn't tell where the moan was coming from.

"He's just dazed," a distorted voice muttered above him. "Do it now." Lassiter blinked hard; was he seeing things or were there two men standing over him? Or three?

Hands pulled him roughly to a sitting position; his head jerked towards his chest. He felt hands on shirt he was wearing; it disappeared over his head. Lassiter shivered, half naked, but only for a few seconds. Another shirt was pulled over his head, his arms fed through the holes. He felt cloth on his ankles, then his shins, his knees, his thighs. Someone pushed him to the floor and tugged cloth up around his waist. The new fabric was too loose— or was it too tight? He wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling too cold.

"Leave him," a voice said. Then, loud against a bleary silence, "Get that other shirt. We'll need him soon— security clearance. Where is the pass?"

Lassiter's head swam. The figures were dancing, blurring from person shapes to blue-black blobs. He curled back to his left side, then closed his eyes.

* * *

Lassiter's head shot up. He almost bashed his head on the wall, but Henry pulled his face forward, keeping his grip tight on Lassiter's mouth. Lassiter struggled, his blue eyes not registering Henry at all. Then his eyes changed. He stopped moving, but tried to maneuver a hand around Henry's arm to get the hand off of his mouth. Henry let go of Lassiter's elbows, and swatted Lassiter's hand back down. He brought a finger to his mouth, making a shushing gesture. Henry's muscles were tensed; he was glancing at the wall over his right shoulder. In the charged silence, Lassiter heard a scrape, then a shadow stretched toward them. He froze, pressing himself against the wall.

The shadow loomed, seeming to grow bigger— then it stopped, and fell away. A few seconds later, they heard a door squeak open and then close with a creaky slam. Henry finally let out his stale breath and sucked in new air. He sat back, letting go of Lassiter, who also half relaxed. Henry wiped a hand across his brow, looking Lassiter over. "You okay?" he asked in a low voice, as if someone were still near.

Lassiter stared back. "I think so." His eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

Henry shrugged. "I could ask you the same thing." He frowned. "I think you passed out. I tried to get you to wake up, but—"

"Oh," Lassiter mumbled, staring at his knees. "I remembered something." He swallowed, another image striking him. _Someone had a hold of his wrist, had pulled the glove from his hand— the demanding whisper to spread his fingers over some kind of smooth surface that pulsed with blue light. A beep._ Lassiter shook his head hard. _Please,_ he begged his mind, _no more._

Henry remembered, from Lassiter's journal, that fainting often preceded a memory. He was in wonder of his son, who had been looking out for Lassiter all this time— had he really had the patience for this? When Lassiter had slumped, Henry had nearly panicked. It was alarming to see firsthand; what he'd seen in the hospital had been chilling enough.

"I— I can't control it," Lassiter continued, his voice soft. "I just want it to stop."

Henry nodded. He was now more sure than ever that whatever had been in that syringe was still hanging around in Lassiter's system, screwing with his physiology— and his mind.

"I know I scared you," Henry acknowledged. "I barely got us hidden before that guard or whatever the person was appeared." Henry risked a glance around the alcove's wall. The path outside was empty. "I was just worried you'd—"

"Get us caught," Lassiter nodded, dropping his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. There was more— he felt himself start to slip. He couldn't— not now. _Cybil's hand around his throat; then, Marte's arm cutting off his air supply, and the vacant whisper, "This not the end." _Lassiter shuddered. _Get control,_ he told himself firmly.

Henry moistened his lips. "What did you remember?" He pressed to his feet, taking one more look before stepping out of the alcove. He moved around the building to the right, where he'd dropped the briefcase. When he came back, he saw Lassiter was trying to get up by pressing back on his hands, holding his back against the wall. He was flushed with exertion. Henry stooped to wrap his arm around Lassiter's waist. He straightened, and Lassiter continued to use to the wall as a crutch.

Henry decided not to ask if the painkillers were gone; it seemed obvious they were. The pain was written in lines across his face, punucated with large beads of sweat. Lassiter hadn't complained; Henry saw him wince and grit his teeth, but he refused to admit that he wasn't up for this. There wasn't any turning back now.

"This place is familiar."

"This is Leadbetter Beach's deserted side— weren't you found here?"

"Yes. On the other side, I think. Closer to people." He looked out over the vast expanse of sand, which shimmered under the sun's hot glow. Lassiter closed his eyes. "But— here. Uh." He couldn't be sure of where he was when he awoke the first time, but it was plausible it was here. "They— I think they brought me here. Are we close?" He wanted to part with his past— leave it far behind; but it just kept smacking him in the face. "We should move— they'll be expecting you soon."

Henry stopped him, catching something in Carlton's tone.

Lassiter shook his hand off, his blue eyes staring with anger.

"What's the matter with you?" Henry snapped, trying to keep his voice low.

"Nothing," Lassiter mumbled. He took a few steps in the direction the shadow had come from. "Is it here?" His hands were shaking.

"Carlton, what is the hell is wrong?" Henry hissed dangerously, grabbing Lassiter's right arm sharply to turn him. He caught the pale fear swimming in Lassiter's eyes before the younger man had a chance to veil it.

"I'm not too scared to do this," he mumbled, "but I am—" He didn't want to look in Henry's eyes. This place was much too familiar; he worked to steady his breathing, to focus on the real reason he'd come here. He shook his head. "I'm just— I'm okay now." He forced himself to hold Henry's eyes until the older man nodded tightly.

_You just need to hang on, kid,_ Henry thought fiercely. The back of his neck prickled with worry. "I need you to tell me you know this isn't your fault."

Lassiter looked at him skeptically again.

"Say it," Henry edged. He hoped this would steady Lassiter's thoughts, at least for now.

"It's not my fault," Lassiter repeated quietly, looking down. He knew what Henry was up to, and was grateful.

"Okay," Henry said with a tight nod. He rubbed a hand across his face.

"We should go," Lassiter said, looking forward again. He moistened his lips. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Henry swallowed, pushing his fears back as far as they would go. He expected Shawn to be a mess— so he couldn't be. Shawn needed strength; Henry noticed Lassiter working towards that objective too. He nearly looked like his old self, in spite of the injuries. They started walking. The buildings looked similar and still, casting oblong shadows across the pavement and the sand. Despite the heat of the early day, walking in the shadows offered little relief; they were both too on edge.

"What number?" Lassiter asked, after they passed the two listless buildings.

"Twenty-three eleven. This one's . . . 2313."

"This one is the one we want," Lassiter said, swallowing a mouthful of panic.

"How do you—" Henry began, but then nodded, noticing Lassiter's fingers shaking. "You remembered?" Lassiter nodded curtly.

That meant Shawn was inside, maybe waiting just within that gray rectangle with its crude, rusty handle. Henry stood staring at the what must be the rear of the building. He couldn't tell much about it from the outside, but it was as silent as the others. He noticed a door off to side, which he pointed out to Lassiter, who nodded. He took out his cell phone and passed it to Lassiter. "Dial 911 if we don't—"

"That hasn't worked well for me so far," Lassiter said, not taking the phone. "Besides, I'll be inside with you. It's not going to look good for you if they manage to find your cell phone on me, either."

Henry paused, still holding out the phone. So, Carlton had already considered this— that there was a more than likely possibility they could get the best of him. He sighed, and slipped the phone into his pants pocket. "Just— be careful, Carlton," he said quietly. "Please don't use yourself as a distraction."

Lassiter shrugged, trying to cover the shaking in his arms. "If it helps the two of you, I wouldn't hesitate to do it."

Henry didn't say anything. Lassiter hoped his paternal instincts were kicking in; there was strain across his face. "I meant what I said before," Henry finally told him, but he didn't elaborate.

"I— I know," Lassiter said. He wiped some sweat from his face.

"Don't let them provoke you— you're stronger than that."

"You think that, even now?" Lassiter asked, arching an eyebrow. He felt stupid for asking for this validation— for wanting it.

Henry rolled his eyes. "Look, you think I'm not scared shitless? Hell, of course I am. But I'm less scared because I know you've got the strength to help us." Henry patted his heart for emphasis. "They can't take that away from you, no matter what." Henry looked towards the gray door, and clutched the handle on the briefcase tighter.

"I'll be there soon," Lassiter told him, easing himself towards the side door. When he was out of sight, Henry stepped to the gray door and knocked, his heart slipping down into his shoes.

* * *

Shawn awoke slowly, feeling groggy. His stomach was tight and bothered immediately, sending signals that his fuzzy brain couldn't interpret. _How long was I out cold?_ he wondered, easing his chin off his chest without opening his eyes. It was hard to do; his muscles were shaking again— the ones that could move, that was. He wriggled his fingers, alarmed at how cramped they were; they barely moved. The last thing he remembered was . . . talking to Henry. _Oh, god._ And then writhing helplessly in the chair. _So, that's another reason why my throat is so sore,_ Shawn thought, forcing his eyes open into the bright light. He immediately shut them, and then worked hard to blink away the yellow-green spots that hovered before his pupils. _Dad, please don't—_ Why couldn't he have forced those words out instead? Granted, he felt that he'd never been so frantic in his life— but— this? Involving Henry? Notte was already going to kill Lassiter and Shawn couldn't do a thing to stop it— and if he was still bound to this chair, how could he help his father? How were they going to stay alive?

_Shawn, this is no time to panic,_ he told himself. _You're smart. You can figure a way out of this._ _You always do._ He thought it, then wished he could take it back. What if he'd used up all of his "always"? The horrible thoughts were edging back . . . he turned his head slowly, grunting into the soggy cloth, "No, no, no, no, no, no, go—" until all he could hear was his hitched breath and the pounding in his head and chest.

He wasn't certain at first, but he thought he could hear voices in the large space of the outer room. He didn't want to listen to any plans his abductors may be making, so he tried to shut his mind off, but a more familiar tone set with a concerned demand threaded its way to him. _No, he didn't want to believe it. If this person had arrived, was it close to the end of both of them?_

Shawn held his breath, until heavy footsteps approached his small room. Their stony faces appeared, reaching for him. He yelped, unsuccessful in yet another attempt to get loose, and one of them slapped the back of his head. Shawn gritted his teeth, cursing through the cloth, until another hand found its way to his chin, squeezing and tugging— straining his neck dangerously. Shawn cried out, but then froze, knowing he wanted to get out of this alive.

* * *

"Chief, you don't really think Mr. Spencer could have taken Carlton somewhere against his will, do you?" Juliet asked on the drive back, her eyes wide. It was much too difficult to imagine Henry Spencer in the light of hardened criminal, or even of a desperate one.

Vick sighed. All she knew was that Lassiter was gone again— missing— and that Henry was nowhere to be found. "I guess I'd rather believe that then think that someone else took Carlton—" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Unless Carlton got that picture and tried to go rescue Shawn on his own," Juliet theorized.

"No. I think you're right. He'd need help getting out of there—" She got an unwelcome flash of Lassiter's battered face and body. "I'd rather believe that Henry knows where he is."_ Because I don't know if I can handle knowing some criminal took Carlton— again,_ she thought. She was going to kill Henry Spencer. She gritted her teeth. She thought back to the late morning of July 31, when Lassiter hadn't shown up for duty, and wasn't in his apartment or anywhere else for that matter. His car was there, his keys, badge and wallet. She remembered thinking that, despite the lack of struggle, that the only possibility that made any sense was a kidnapping. Lassiter worked through the flu and on the job injuries, he worked double and triple shifts without complaint, at his best when he worked to serve and protect.

"That would be stupid though, considering all of Carlton's injuries."

"It would be plain stupid anyway," Vick muttered. _Why didn't Henry know better? At least Lassiter had an excuse— though,_ Vick reflected, chewing her lip, _Lassiter should know better as well._ _Unless he thinks he knows what he's doing— god. This is all my fault._

The second they were through the doors, Vick started demanding things of her officers— had her orders been carried out? Were there descriptions, APBs— had any known addresses been located? They were still scrambling; partly or half done; she had only been at lockup for a less than an hour.

"Hurry up!" Vick barked to her various subordinates, many of who seemed flustered by their already started hard work. She hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it popped out of her mouth among the flurry of words. "This may be our last chance to get Lassiter back."

"I found two addresses, Chief," Samuelson told her, meeting her and Juliet halfway from the station doors. "Both leases are in B. Notte's name— those were the only Nottes listed in Santa Barbara. And there were no results earlier than 1998 for any Cavalieres." He handed over two printouts, explaining one was a residence on the Westside, and the other was a business storage facility— though it had gone unused for many years. "That's on the far side of Leadbetter Beach— which is closest to the Westside."

"Leadbetter Beach?" Juliet repeated, her eyes shining. "Gus told us he thinks Henry may have alluded to that in his note." She explained the conversation to Samuelson while Vick took a few moments to think.

Leadbetter Beach— that was where Lassiter had shown up disheveled after missing for nearly three days. _That can't be a coincidence,_ Vick thought. But the residence, on the Westside— "Where's that journal?" she asked, interrupting her detectives. Samuelson turned on his heel and returned quickly with it. Vick took it, flipping through to one of the entries written in Shawn Spencer's hand. Her eyes narrowed. Shawn had written that he'd been on the Westside, trying to find Bernise Locksmith Company— the same name on the receipt they had seen— when he'd been attacked. This was no good— they'd have to go to both.

She left both of them without a word, heading towards her office.

"Chief?" Juliet called after her.

Vick turned around. "We've got two possible options, O'Hara," she said, "and very little time to pick the right one." She sighed, her expression pinched. "Keep up the search; and assure me everyone has their priorities straight, and get ready. I'm going to make another call," she said, and walked on.

* * *

Henry stepped back from the door as it opened; a similar creaking on its hinge from earlier made Henry wince. He didn't risk any glances in the direction Lassiter had gone in; his insides all in knots. From inside, a damp, musty odor of disuse, and a gray semi-dark awaited him. There was a man close to the door frame; the slight hint of sun behind Henry hit the black metal object in the man's hand when Henry shifted towards the door. He was waved in, his heart racing irregularly in his ears. When the door to the outside closed, Henry's eyes blinked furiously to adjust in this light.

"Do you have the documents?" the man— Notte, wasn't it?— with the gun asked Henry. The gun, Henry saw, was a glock, a Steyr M9 with a silencer screwed onto the muzzle. Henry recognized him— that scar was unmistakable, if any other details might be unclear. Henry also stole a quick glance at the floor— the man wore the same gray snakeskin shoes. He had no idea if the man remembered passing him at Lassiter's door. He held in a shuddering sigh. He didn't like having to be this close to the man, knowing all he'd done to Lassiter. And whatever he had done to Shawn . . . He pressed his lips together tightly.

"Where's my son?" Henry demanded, clutching the briefcase tighter. Two goons patted Henry down, one trying to pry the papers away from him. The bigger one pocketed Henry's cell phone. Henry's muscles tightened further. This big man must be Martey— Lassiter's attacker and Shawn's kidnapper. "_Indisturbato_," Marte said with a nod.

"Nah, Cybil," Notte instructed, and the goon let go of the briefcase.

_Shit,_ Henry thought. _Not only aren't they wearing masks, but they are careless enough to use their own names. And Cybil was— according to Lassiter— a murderer. _As forceful as he could make his quavering voice sound, he asked again about Shawn.

"Documents," the man said calmly. He leveled the gun at Henry's face until he complied. The leaner of the goons— Cybil— opened the case and thumbed through the packet quickly before passing it to Notte with a nod. "Did you happen to look these over, Mr. Spencer? Perhaps, make copies?"

Henry sneered. "Do you think I'm stupid? I wasn't about to gamble with my son's life like that."

The man's face was impassible; Henry couldn't be sure if he bought the story or not. He made fists. He wanted to run towards a side room where he noticed an open door. But he was no good to Shawn shot. Or dead.

"Please," Henry begged, his patience frayed. "Shawn?"

The man's lips turned up, not quite a smile. "Your son is, for the most part, unharmed." The man huffed playfully. "It's a shame, really. I just couldn't bring myself to haveh as much fun with him as with the detective." Henry's eyes were wide enough to burst. Anger hummed in his ears.

"Cybil, Marte, bring _le sensitivo_ to his father, _si_?" He took something metal out of his pocket and tossed it to Cybil. Notte turned on his heel with the documents and walked towards a narrow hallway.

The goons left, heading straight towards the room Henry had suspected they were holding Shawn. A muffled yell, then another, and wooden squeal of the legs of chair scraping on concrete. The goons, one on either side, carried Shawn out, still bound to a chair. Henry went into shock briefly.

Shawn's appearance still matched that of the Polaroid, though it seemed there were fresh bruises on his skin. His lips were cracked and red. Henry looked him up and down; there was a small splotch of red on his shirt. Shawn's eyes, usually so bright, had dulled, his body tense. Shawn looked in pain lashed to the chair, the gag thick and tight around his mouth. Henry's anger welled, his eyes stung. Shawn stared up at his father, disbelieving the elder Spencer was standing right in front of him. His features were twisted with fear and relief. Shawn made a muffled whimpering sound that may have been a word as he stared at Henry.

Henry crossed the room to Shawn's chair, immediately trying to take the gag off. "Stop," Cybil said behind him. He'd opened Notte's switchblade and pressed the blade against the back of Henry's neck. Henry slowly raised his hands but didn't leave Shawn's side.

Shawn's heart pulsed so fast he worried he would pass out. His father had a clean soapy, after-shave smell, familiar, but also bore the odor of sweaty fear, which Shawn figured was the prominent scent present on his own skin. Henry's fingers brushed the back of his neck, reaching for the knot. Shawn felt dread; he wanted, more than anything, to walk out that door with Henry's strong arm around his shoulders, but the thought seemed an impossibility— dashed even more so when he heard Cybil's voice.

* * *

Lassiter felt his way to the side door, his hands shaking so badly he worried what would happen when he let go of the wall. He focused on anger; on the need to protect those who were risking their lives for his sake. He tried the handle, relieved it wasn't locked. He waited until Henry was inside, then quietly opened the door enough to squeeze through. He blinked in the dark, pressing his back to the wall near the door, and taking in quick breaths through his nose. Lassiter worked hard to keep steady— his breathing, his muscles, his thoughts. His pain. Where he was was layered with shadow; there were pillars or supports that could work to hide him until the time was right.

He waited again, overhearing Henry's exchange with Notte, Cybil and Marte, though he couldn't see them from here. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out the .45, popping off the safety. He eased forward when he heard footsteps, followed shortly by distant noise and then an angry, muffled voice.

Lassiter was hidden from view by a pillar and long shadows, but now he could make out four figures, sharp in a pool of artificial light. _Spencer's still alive,_ he told himself, looking over Shawn in manner similar to Henry's. He got a jolt of relief and then one of anger when he saw the bruises on Shawn's face. He was pale and his eyes looked wet. A patch of the kid's hair was flattened in the front, and it looked like dried blood. _Son of a bitch. These bastards are going to pay— regardless of what _I_ could have done, Spencer's still an innocent. _Lassiter scanned him quickly for other signs of injury, but it was too hard to tell from here.

Carlton saw Cybil pull the knife on Henry. Henry raised his hands. "Can I just stay with him?" Henry asked in a low voice. Cybil sneered. He elbowed Henry's left side and then shoved him to the right and approached Shawn. Henry turned sharply, trying to put himself between Shawn and Cybil, but Marte grabbed the back of Henry's head. When Henry struggled, Marte wrapped his free hand around both of Henry's wrists. Henry gasped, feeling the hard squeeze of both of Marte's hands. _Skull crusher hands,_ he recalled from the journal. _No kidding._ "It's just business, _allora morte_," Cybil said flatly, pressing the blade through the air towards Shawn's throat. Shawn yelled into the gag, his eyes wide. He turned his head frantically, as if he could finally break the ropes.

With purpose, Lassiter took a step from the shadows, cocking and leveling the gun. He swung towards the Cybil. "Get away from him, now," Lassiter growled, his voice echoing. Cybil and Marte looked up, startled, but neither moved. Lassiter swung the gun in Marte's direction, his face set. "Let him go!" Marte held on for a few seconds, holding Lassiter's eyes, but then loosened his grip. Henry pulled himself from Marte's grasp, stepping out of range from the giant. "Move away from him!" Lassiter demanded at Cybil, getting closer. "I have no problem shooting you," Lassiter added tightly.

_Lassie?_ Shawn stopped struggling and froze, watching Cybil flinch above him. Lassiter's voice sounded gravelly— _but he was here. He's here to rescue us_, Shawn thought with wide eyes. When Cybil backed away, Shawn caught Lassiter's eyes. He gasped. For a moment, he'd forgotten that Lassiter had been beaten up— how was he managing to stand up? Shawn stared at him, horrified. His left eye was black, his nose was swollen, and his lip had been split and was sewed up— and the rest of his face was covered with bandages. _Oh, my god. _Shawn thought, with awe and anger. The knuckles on both hands had been wrapped with gauze, and there was a faint pink line across the hollow of his neck, as well as some newer bruises across his throat. He held the gun with command, but even from here, Shawn could see his arms and his torso were shaking. _He's hurt bad— oh, god. _

Lassiter motioned with the gun that both Marte and Cybil back away from the Spencers. Cybil wore no expression as he dropped the knife, kicking it away from him as ordered. He folded his arms across his chest, his expression turning cold and daring. Cybil stared hard at Lassiter, who had the gun aimed at his heart. Henry moved back towards Shawn's chair, standing near Shawn's right side. He momentarily caught Lassiter's eye, then started to untie the knots around Shawn's gag.

Shawn stole a glance at Cybil. He knew Cybil likely still had that revolver on him, hidden in his jacket. He tried to motion with his eyes that he knew this, but neither his father nor Lassiter picked up on it. He grunted into the cloth, hoping Henry could get it off soon. He allowed himself to wonder how Lassiter could have gotten here in his condition.

Not taking his eyes off Cybil, Lassiter was about to ask if they were okay when a voice startled him. "So soon out of the hospital, _caro_? I thought you said you put him in a coma?" This was the woman's voice. Donia. She moved away from a shadow that had completely obscured her. Lassiter's eyes flicked towards her but kept his gun steady.

"Stay where you are," he ordered, though his voice shook a little. She continued forward. Shawn stared at Lassiter. He figured he'd never been so happy to see that Lassie was okay, though he caught Lassiter's subtle but frequent cringes— of pain or terror, Shawn wasn't certain. He glanced to Henry, noticing how tense his father was— and was also keeping his eye on Lassiter.

"It is so nice that you came to us, Carton Lessier. It will save us the trip of coming for you— again," Cybil chuckled. He feigned a step towards Lassiter, and then he and Marte laughed at the detective's expression. Lassiter recovered quickly, hiding panic behind a scowl.

Lassiter recognized Marte instantly, though all of their familiarity was returning to him at a sickening pace. He was putting their actual real time faces to the memories he'd experienced. He felt sweat trickling down his nose. This was the worst time to allow his fear to get the best of him. He fought hard to keep it at bay. He flicked his eyes to Shawn and Henry, who were both intent on watching him.

"You— you could have killed me," Carlton said, staring for half a second at the hulk, who only smirked in reply.

"Not so," a voice said behind Lassiter. Lassiter swung around, trying to keep his gun trained on all of them. "He was ordered only to rough you up. Anything else is up to me. Mr. Spencer, leave that gag in your son's mouth, _si_?" Notte too stepped from the shadows and tsked, looking Lassiter over. He aimed his gun at Henry, who dropped his hand to Shawn's shoulder, glancing down at the ropes holding him to the chair. He flinched at how tight they were; Shawn's fingers were a light shade of purple. Henry had been able to loosen the cloth, so Shawn worked on pushing it out with his tongue.

Notte eyes narrowed on Henry. "Now, Mr. Spencer, I believe I told you to come alone."

"I did," Henry shot back. He squeezed Shawn's shoulder tightly. Shawn eyed Henry, wondering.

Notte frowned, looking over Lassiter, as if trying to determine if it were possible for him to come here on his own. He seemed undecided. "You seem to care little for your own personal safety, Detective Lassiter. I see that does not keep you from your fear of me." Lassiter froze, but held his ground. "Don't be so stunned. You have your right to be so paralyzed." Lassiter blinked hard; why had he used _that_ word? Notte laughed. "We haveh missed you— we could not haveh as much fun with the child as with you."

Lassiter cursed. He shook his .45. _"How dare you_—" He and Notte had their guns trained on each other, standing about five feet apart. "You're nothing but a coward, picking on a kid." He noticed, at least to his own ears, that his voice sounded stronger and braver than he actually felt. He heard Henry's earlier words in his head.

"How I miss— you were so compliant— nearly so good at obeying our commands. Do you not remember?" Notte advanced with a smirk. "Auppose you wouldn't. Though it is a pity for your police instincts, _si_? Cybil told you not to help Sweets but you still—"

All those faces who had haunted him— belonged to this man, to these people— looming over him, leering, laughing at him. And here, in this room, the two most unlikely people— Spencers— who had talked him back from the edge time and time again. Why? He remembered Shawn's words from days before— _"You want me to pretend I don't know you're in trouble?" _Spencer had also said— though he was obviously shaken after Marte's first attack on him— that finding out the truth was worth the risk. He couldn't let them down. "No," Lassiter said, holding Notte's eyes. "I remember. You bastard."

Notte tsked. "You weren't aupposed to."

"You brought me back here, covered in blood— then you dumped me on the beach— in that bloody t-shirt, after you drugged me again," Lassiter said slowly, piecing together what he had remembered and written in the journal. He realized he couldn't remember so much about being dumped on the beach because he'd been forced unconscious; the chloroform had likely affected his memory too. "Why did you bother to let me go?"

"So we could play with your head, _caro_— it has been so fun, _si_?" Donia purred. "I most enjoy watching you— sleep." Lassiter threw her a nasty look, but she wasn't at all thrown by it. She smiled back.

"At first, you no recognize us at all," Cybil said, teasing. "And so nice— you stuck there in your house, and us with keys— any time we want—"

Shawn glanced at Cybil as he spoke. He could tell, by his tone, despite its teasing over-current, that Cybil was more stating facts than trying to be malicious towards Lassiter. From what Shawn had observed of Cybil's behavior since he'd been brought here was that Cybil was less Notte's right hand man and more under the older man's thumb— going along with him because it seemed expected. Not that he didn't trade some nasty sentences with Shawn, but it seemed to Shawn that Cybil regarded this— all of it— as some kind of _slightly_ unpleasant business dealings. Shawn shivered; it was hard to forget that Cybil was a murderer though— and would have probably slit his throat just now if Lassiter hadn't stopped him.

"And if you still with us, how do you go to jail for murder?" Marte added, crossing his arms slowly.

Notte frowned. "You shoulda haveh listened to us," he snarled at Lassiter. He jabbed the gun towards Lassiter. "Lower your weapon," he menaced.

"Forget it," Lassiter said with conviction, locking his eyes with Notte for a second. It disturbed him what he saw there, so he looked away.

This was not good— they were purposely trying to shake him. Henry tried to think of something to say to get Lassiter's attention off of this. He hoped Lassiter would remember what he'd said outside.

"But I know you will come back— even if I could no longer—" Donia began dreamily, pressing her palms together is if in prayer. While Lassiter held his gun on Notte, she took some steps forward, until she was in line with Cybil. "Because I—"

"Shut up," Cybil hissed.

"How was I aupposed to know?" Donia pouted. "You said you'd never mixed those two before—"

"Shut up, Donia!" Cybil snarled.

"You said you did not know what was going to happen!" Donia yipped, a mere five feet of raw energy barking up Cybil's six foot frame. "This is what happens when you pick an experimental _droga_—"

"_Silenzio_, all of you," Mr. Notte commanded.

Lassiter looked from one to the next, back, back, his face contorted with confusion and anger. "Mixed _what_ before? What you dosed me with?"

"Because of the Rohypnol was mixed with the amphetamine, it allowed us to have control over you— you had to do whatever we say," Cybil told him with crossed arms. "Once the Rohypnol is out of your system— you no longer follow those orders— but the _Belladormita_ no leave. It is still with you, reacting to your fears— releasing its properties— and the more frightened you are—" He laughed. "The better. My father would haveh been so proud, _si_, Notta?"

Notte smiled. Lassiter's features were slack, his eyes wild. What Henry had said— _"I think that the contents of the syringe are still in your bloodstream." _It was _true_. Terror spiked from his soles to his crown, surging from his pores on the skin of his arms. "_Bella_—" His voice shook; he blinked back fear and darkness, knowing others were depending on his strength and courage. "It's a lie," he mumbled uncertainly.

Mr. Notte barked a laugh. "Cybil is most correct— _Belladormita _is an experimental amphetamine found only on the Italian Black Market. One of its promised, desired reactions— though you would know for certain— is a heightened vividness of memory, as well as a crippling reaction to any smallest fear." He smiled as he watched Lassiter's face crumple; Lassiter suppressed a shudder that hummed in his shoulders. "Because it is unknown, its effects could not be picked up on a normal toxins tests— unless a person knows exactly what to look for." He smiled darkly. "It has been in your system since the night we took you, affecting you— helping you to seem your most unstable— we needed this insurance plan."

Lassiter tightened his grip on the gun. "What are you talking about?" he snapped.

"You see, Detective, we needed your level of security clearance to get into Central Coast," Notte continued with yet another smirk. "Though, there were other reasons why we chose you from any other. I have been wanting to take you— to punish you— for some time, but I required myself to wait until that time was most appropriate."

_"I have been wanting to take you for some time."_ Notte's words made Lassiter and Henry shiver. "For what?" Lassiter blurted out. Notte ignored him, though there were the makings of a scowl at the corners of his lips.

Instead, he smiled darkly at the young woman in what seemed to be a tender moment. "My daughter also took a shine to you— _ragazza_? Eleven years prior? Ten?" Donia nodded and also smiled darkly, at Lassiter, who had the flash of memory her in the precinct, pretending to kiss him. "Though," he stage whispered, "it is a foolish— I allowed it because I know it could not last."

"She's your daughter?" Carlton asked, stunned. _Wait, he had known this, at least on paper, right?_ Shawn chewed on the cloth, trying to get it to come loose. He recognized this strain of fear in Lassiter's tone; he'd benefit from Shawn's reassuring words. _God, and Notte knew this. _Shawn worked harder.

"You— you let your daughter—?"

"What?" Donia asked. Any other time, it may have been funny to watch Lassiter argue with a five foot tall woman who seemed to terrify him— but neither Shawn nor Henry were enjoying this conversation. "Control you?" She puckered a kiss.

"Because you—" Lassiter had to stop. There was an unpleasant rush in his ears. He couldn't remember anything she'd done intimately but kiss him.

"Oh, _this_ is what you think?" Donia asked Lassiter, who nodded, his blue eyes intense. She laughed musically, and gave him back an equally intense look. "The things you boys think of me. Ah! I am good— I make promise— till I have a ring." She smiled, her dimples showing. "But your kisses are so sweet." She blew him a kiss and giggled when he flinched. Her eyes lingered, and then she stared at Shawn. "I tell him, _si_. Just a kiss." She batted her eyes at Shawn, who turned his head with a flash in his eyes. It was obvious he wanted to curse at her, but the gag prevented it.

"Besides," she added, "this is no way to start our relationship, _si_?"

Lassiter's jaw slackened; he had no idea what to say. She couldn't really think that— that—

Donia threaded her fingers through her hair. "Like that myth. Drag you off to _la malavita_— then what?" Her eyes gleamed darkly. "Ah— but if only I were to know that you would remember— perhaps, I—"

"You're crazy," Lassiter mumbled, trying not to focus on her.

Donia didn't seem to hear him. "Ah, you, I am, how you say, _non riuscire a togliersi dalla testa_."

"_La sua voce fastidiosa mi irrita davvero_," Cybil muttered to Marte, who stood with crossed arms, his expression in a relaxed frown.

"If you had done your research," Donia snapped, turning on Cybil, "we would have known— he should not have remembered one single thing!"

Henry and Shawn exchanged a quick glance. Lassiter held his ground while they argued, still covering Notte who covered him with an amused ease.

"How many times I must tell you?" Cybil snapped back, boring his dark eyes into hers. "No amount of research is available! Why not _you_ do this research? No—"

"Shut up!" Donia screeched back.

"No, instead, you indulge in your stupid fantasy—"

"And what is it _you_ do?" Donia turned from him, flashing cool eyes on Notte for a moment.

_"__Monella_," Notte frowned at her.

Their loud arguing was reminiscent of Lassiter's latest memory— the construction done nearby that rang in his head, shook up his dreams and fragments of partly forgotten occurrences. He tried hard not to fall back into it, but holding the gun steady with both hands was starting to take its toll. He hoped it wasn't showing in his eyes. He caught movement from Notte, the slightest nod; he wondered which one he was signaling to. Lassiter felt his arms shake, pain spiking down his ribs like jagged forks of lightning. He bit his lip hard, which was a mistake, he knew, as soon as his teeth sunk into the tender skin on his split lip, but he didn't stop. He continued to hold the gun as steady as possible. He jumped when he caught movement in the corner of his left eye, keeping his arms straight and his fingers around the trigger even as Marte lunged for him. Lassiter had forgotten how fast the big man could move.

He heard both Henry and Shawn cry out a warning that came too late; Marte took a cheap shot and bashed his tree trunk arm into Lassiter's ribs. Lassiter bent at the waist with a grunt; his hands were shaking all of all sudden; this was unwillingly reminiscent of the attack in his apartment. _No, no, this was a very bad time for a flash of memory_. He shook his head to clear it, and tried to dodge Marte's next punch but Marte's knuckles managed to clip his right wrist, still sore and only partially healed from the sprain. His finger was squeezing the trigger but he eased up when his vision blurred; he didn't want to shoot the wrong person.

"Stop!" Henry cried out, finding his voice again after watching with an open mouthed horror. He squeezed Shawn's shoulder so hard Shawn winced visibly. Shawn also yelled again through the gag. He didn't enjoy having front row seats to another round of beatings for Lassiter.

Pain shot across Lassiter's face as Marte knocked him in the ribs again. Just before his knees buckled, he felt one of them snatch the gun from his grasp. He tried to reach for it but Marte punched both of his hands, sending a shockwave of pain down his right wrist hard enough to make his teeth rattle. His head was spinning, or was it the room? No, he was panting heavily into the concrete floor.

"Get him up," Notte instructed with a flourish of hand.

Marte roughly grabbed Lassiter under his armpits, jerking him to his feet. He felt Marte pat him down quickly. Lassiter's arms flailed against Marte's body until the giant pulled Lassiter's left arm behind his back, holding it firmly but not doing any twisting.

Henry and Shawn both felt sick. Lassiter's face was as white as a crepe paper ghost. He was panting shallowly now, with sweat broken out across his forehead.

"You are not so well, then?" Notte taunted. Lassiter managed to steel his cold blue eyes in Notte's direction. "Perhaps you should not have come here."

"Go to hell," Lassiter retorted sharply, though it felt as if he had broken glass impaled around his ribs.

Notte's eyes gleamed. "I suspect those ribs of yours are still quite sore then," Notte commented to Lassiter, who frowned. He stopped in front of Lassiter, holding his gun close to Lassiter's face. "Marte, lift his shirt. I would so enjoy to see." As Notte hard brown eyes stared into his, Carlton did his best not to flinch. He felt Marte's huge fingers untucking his shirt, then tugging the cloth. He struggled, swallowing a flutter of panic. Marte pulled on his left arm, causing him to focus on the pain of this moment— so he wasn't swallowed completely another memory of the many transgressions committed against him. Lassiter knew he was helpless to stop him— just like when they'd dressed him, the memory he'd been too mortified to tell to Henry. Notte stepped back, now unblocking the view for the others. The skin around his ribs had changed from the deep blue-black to an even deeper purple-black.

Shawn gaped, anger flashing across his eyes. "Oh, my god," Henry choked out. Lassiter looked away, embarrassed.

"This is nice work, Marte," Notte commended, nodding at the giant with a smile.

"I do my best," Marte said. "I just hurt him some."

Lassiter sneered but said nothing. He noticed Donia wore a tight scowl before he closed his eyes to block them out, even just for a moment. "We should see the rest, hmm?" Notte muttered, with a loose smile. He reached out and ripped off the bandage from the cut he had given Lassiter the day before. Then, the one under Lassiter's right eye and eyebrow. Lassiter's eyes watered furiously as the tape ripped his skin, but he didn't cry out.

"You son of a bitch," Henry growled. The bruises were shades of dark reds, blues and black— and they looked tender and painful. Lassiter was scared— Henry could see him fighting it; he wasn't certain if he'd win or lose. He was angry; he'd led Lassiter into danger— and he had just been attacked right in front of them. "Get your hands off of him." The low sound rumbled from his throat but he was barely aware he'd said it aloud. It earned him a strained glance from both Shawn and Lassiter.

Notte threw an amused look towards Henry. "How protective you are, Mr. Spencer. An admirable quality, _si_? _Lasci_," Notte said in Marte's direction. Marte let go of Lassiter's arm and Lassiter jerked free, quickly fixing his shirt. He saw that Cybil was now holding his .45.

He took a couple of steps towards the Spencers, who were about five feet from him, but was stopped by Notte, who aimed his gun at Lassiter's head. Notte backed up, in the direction of that gray door. "Come closer," Notte told him, leveling the gun at his face. Lassiter remained frozen until Notte swung the muzzle towards Shawn.

"All right," Lassiter said, holding his hands out. He took a couple of steps forward.

_No, don't._ Both Henry and Shawn sent him silent warnings, shaking their heads.

"Closer," Notte purred.

_You should run,_ a small voice told Lassiter inside his head. _I can't,_ he stated back. _We're in this together, like it or not. _

"You were there that night," Lassiter said, trying to keep the pain from his voice. His ribs jarred with every step. He looked over his shoulder at Cybil, who sneered at him. "I'd figure you'd have thugs and lackeys for that."

"Kidnapping police?" Notte admitted, making Henry and Shawn glance at each other. He smiled, a truly ugly sight, fixing his eyes on Shawn. "It was my pleasure." Notte frowned hard at Lassiter. "I will go to the ends of hell to bring you utmost suffering, despair." Lassiter worked to suppress a yet another shiver. "Closer, Detective." He beckoned with a finger as if it were an extra incentive. Notte scared the hell out of him, but he resolved to take each step closer as long as the man with the scar kept his distance from the Spencers. Lassiter felt his hands shake and balled them into fists. He hadn't been sure he could do this— face them, his demons— but now he knew he could— as long as he could keep the others from being hurt— he would do anything. Even get near enough to Notte so that the kidnapper could touch him. _Please, god, don't let me faint,_ he begged.

"Though _le sensitivo_ was also enjoyable, _si_, Marte?" Marte nodded menacingly at Shawn. Shawn made a face under his gag. Notte kept his weapon trained on Lassiter. Lassiter caught Henry in the corner of his eye standing up straighter, his muscles tense with fury as he tried to keep himself from lunging at one of them.

Notte shook his head, a clear, "Don't even try that," on his face.

"Who is that Mr. Bernise you warned me about?" Lassiter asked, to keep him talking. He suspected that Henry had tipped off the police somehow.

Notte smiled. "I am." Lassiter looked confused. Notte barked a laugh. "As I told young Mr. Spencer—"

Lassiter turned his head enough to see Shawn; for once, he wished Spencer could talk— poor kid. He shouldn't be here. Lassiter felt Notte touch his cheek with the muzzle of the gun. He turned back with a small gasp. "Ah, but you do not care for this?"

"What can I do to get you to let them go? They aren't any part of this."

There was a snort from the side from either Cybil or Marte. Lassiter didn't dare turn to see who.

"This is what you really think? That they are not part of this? _Le sensitivo_— I tell him— how he almost saved your life," Notte said, shaking his head. "Wicked, what he is."

Lassiter listened, stunned. He knew he couldn't risk another glance at the Spencers, but he implored for their lives again. "I thought you just wanted me."

"I do want you," Notte said, holding his eyes with a sinister gaze. "But they cannot go free."

"For god's sake," Lassiter growled, "they're innocent—"

"No, they are not!" Notte shot back. "They helped you! They worry for you— you shoulda haveh no one who cares if you live or if you die."

Lassiter's hands were shaking again. "You're— you're mistaken," he said, his voice thin. Lassiter hoped that Henry had enough self-preservation and paternal sense that he kept his mouth shut. He forced himself to hold Notte's eyes. "They don't care what happens to me— they should be able to live because of it."

Notte spat on the ground. "Still so noble, then?"

"It's— it's true," Lassiter continued. He tried to make his mouth shape the sentence, "They were just using me," but he found he couldn't do it— because he was staring at the person who'd used him— treated him as less than human— then tossed him aside, a broken plaything. "It will just be worse for you if you keep them."

Henry wanted to slap Lassiter— he knew that Carlton was only trying to protect them— but Henry didn't want it to be at the cost of Lassiter's life. _Goddammit, he's ignoring my warning— putting himself in harm's way._ He knew Shawn felt the same by the look in his eyes— he also was furious. Henry hated that the goons, who he assumed had concealed weapons, were standing so close to Shawn and him. Shawn was watching Notte with a mix of fury and fear in his eyes. Henry also hated that Notte was standing so close to Lassiter. All he had to do was push the muzzle one inch through the air and it would be at Lassiter's throat.

ÒIf you really knew what was good for you, you'd turn yourselves in," Henry spoke up, feeling their eyes on him. He caught a withering look from Lassiter, who'd flicked an eye in their direction.

Notte sighed dramatically. "You also, Mr. Spencer— like your son. Too many words."

"I'm— I'm serious," Henry continued, hating himself for the stammer.

"So am I," Notte snarled. He took a half step towards Lassiter, pressing the muzzle against Lassiter's cheek, but keeping his glare on Henry. Lassiter flinched but remained frozen for a few seconds.

"What are you planning to do?" Lassiter asked, wanting to get attention off of Henry. He knew he didn't want to know the answer. Notte smiled again, fixing his eyes back on Lassiter.

"That's depends on you, Detective." When Lassiter threw him a minor questioning look, Notte hissed, "Are you ready to die for your crimes?"

"What crimes?" Henry interjected; Lassiter pressed his lips tightly together. Shawn felt some give on the cloth; this had to work.

Notte's jaw tightened with annoyance. "Mr. Spencer— perhaps you should worry after your own son— after all, Mr. Lassiter is not your blood."

Henry flushed with rage, but he pushed on. "He's not yours either, you sick—" He stopped, catching a warning in Shawn's eyes. He bit his lip hard, afraid they would all pay if he lost his temper.

"Perhaps not," Notte said, "but I do enjoy spilling it." He tapped Lassiter's cheek he'd cut with the switchblade with the muzzle of the gun. "So much." Lassiter shuddered, but worked to gather his words.

"I'll do anything— if you just let them go," Lassiter said, forcing Notte's attention away from Henry again. Notte had pulled the gun from his skin again and returned to pointing it at his face. "If you want me, take me," Lassiter continued, trying to ignore loud gasps from both Henry and Shawn. _He had to do this— he promised._ Notte had a hard look in his dark brown eyes. Lassiter made himself not drop eye contact, even though Notte's eyes strayed over his shoulder, staring coldly at Shawn.

"Why did you take Shawn?" Lassiter asked, angry. "Why not just take me?"

"You were going to go to police," Donia said with a pout. "I heard you— he say that it was time and you listen. But I tell you only bad things come of going to police. Pooh, and you wear that silly bracelet." She frowned at Marte and arched an eyebrow as if in scolding, 'Too much?' "You should only listen to me, Mester Lass-et-tere."

Marte shrugged in her direction.

Lassiter ran his tongue around his the back of his teeth, both irritated and scared. He knew he couldn't hide his emotions from them— everything that they'd done had left him nearly spent.

"That child over there was bad influence on you," Notte snapped at Lassiter. "He kept you safe with what he say. Watched over you." Notte spat on the ground. Lassiter was stunned, listening. "We have simple plan— to leave you broken, alone. As thief, as killer— death so near for you then."

Shawn finally pushed the cloth outside his mouth. Henry subtly hooked a finger under the cloth and pulled it until it dropped to Shawn's neck. Shawn ran his dry tongue across his dry lips, swallowing to moisten his mouth with any saliva. "Dad, we've got to—" Shawn whispered almost inaudibly, glancing at Henry's eyes. Henry nodded. Notte was revealing too much— everything. They were expecting, in the end, to have no witnesses. Henry squeezed Shawn's shoulder in encouragement. Shawn wondered seriously, for the first time, if there might be additional help coming for them— or did all of the SBPD still consider Lassiter nothing but a liar and a murderer? _We could really use you guys,_ Shawn thought, flicking his eyes towards the doors.

"You're as crazy as your daughter," Lassiter heard himself say. Notte only laughed. "What the hell do you think I did to you?"

"You didn't do anything to them."

Lassiter and Notte froze, both recognizing that voice.

Lassiter risked a glance in the direction. "Shawn?"

Shawn's voice was reedy and cracked. "You didn't do anything, Lassie," he continued, "I should know."

"Shut that petty mouth of yours!" Notte barked, swinging the glock in Shawn's direction.

Lassiter lunged without thinking, getting his hands under Notte's elbows. Pain shot up and down his ribs and arms, the ache roaring in his ears, but Lassiter didn't let go. He pressed his fingers upwards in the direction of the gun, and actually touched its base. Notte kept a tight hold on the cold metal, the gun bobbing wildly above their heads. Notte whipped his knee towards Lassiter's stomach. He missed, but smacked Lassiter's thigh, which caused Carlton to back up a couple steps. Carlton felt contact with the base of the gun slip away from it, and was about to lunge again until he heard a gun being cocked from behind him. There was a tiny cry from Shawn.

Notte took the distraction, smacking both of Lassiter's arms, then his face with the side of the barrel. Lassiter's head jerked to the side at the hit to his face; he almost toppled with a rush of lightheadedness. His hand against his cheek, his shoulders slumped, Lassiter could make out Cybil pressing the muzzle of the .45 against Henry's throat. Henry sent him a small, apologetic, ticked off look. Shawn seemed worked up with fury, trying again to tug at the ropes.

"That was stupid, Detective," Notte said, his lips curled. He grabbed a handful of Lassiter's hair and pulled him upright, pointing the gun between Lassiter's eyes. "I see no matter what I do or threaten, you will not behave— perhaps it is time." Lassiter caught worried looks from both Spencers. His face was bleeding. He didn't have a chance to speak before Notte made his move.

"Ah, but you say they care none for you," Notte hissed at Lassiter. "They deserve suffering just for that—" Lassiter writhed in Notte's grasp, only to have Notte smack his mouth with the gun.

Lassiter grunted, but felt Notte release his hair. His body burned with pain, and he was shaking again. The hit had busted the stitches on his lip, and new blood was seeping from that exposed wound.

Cybil had one of Henry's arms pinned behind his back, but he'd moved the gun from Henry's throat to aim it at Shawn's head. Henry had struggled, wanting desperately to help Lassiter; Notte had to be stopped. "You don't want to do this," Shawn tried on Cybil, nearly unable to look away from the black mouth of the muzzle.

"Just say the word, _bambino_," Cybil threw back dangerously.

"To answer your earlier declaration, Detective," Notte began. His free arm shot out and grabbed Lassiter's right wrist. Lassiter jerked, suddenly terrified. Notte twisted the wrist again, harder than any other time, then pulled roughly until there was a severe crack, loud as thunder, then a sickening snap. Lassiter screamed. In the few seconds of white hot blinding pain, which Lassiter felt all over his whole body, he was shaking with both too much heat and too much cold, his eyes rolling, wet. Notte let go of the broken wrist and yanked his left wrist across his body, effectively restraining both arms, the broken wrist pinned against Lassiter's chest. Though Notte was shorter and bulkier than Lassiter, he no trouble restraining the younger man. Gracefully, as if it were a dance, Notte pressed the silencer muzzle directly under Lassiter's chin, so Lassiter couldn't speak if he wanted to. The safety had come off a long while ago, an Notte's finger was poised on the trigger. "I _am_ taking you," he hissed in Carlton's ear.


	24. Chapter 23: Ask For Another Day

**Chapter Twenty Three: Ask For Another Day**

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Disclaimer: All usual disclaimers still apply. I don't own any references to the songs/ lyrics of Tori Amos' _Hotel_, The Vincent Black Shadow's _This Road Is Going Nowhere_, Metallica's _I Disappear_, The Future Leaders of America's _Let Me Out_, Hungry Lucy's _Grave_, or to the movie _Bonnie and Clyde_. I also don't own any references to _Lolita_ or Polaroid.

Author's Note: I have billions of thanks to offer to all my reviewers! You all are so awesome and all of your wonderful comments really mean the world to me! Here's another billion thanks for reading. :)

This chapter contains much whumpage, just so you know. This chapter is also longish; I tried to see if I could break it into two shorter chapters, but I found I didn't want to do that. Happy reading!

Italian Vocabulary (credited to wordreference dot com): _Sensitivo _= Psychic;_ Si _= Yes; _Morte_ = Death; _Una dolorosa morte_ = A painful death; _Sepolte vive_ = Buried alive; _Lasci_ = You release; _Ragazzaccio_ = Bad boy; _Questa maglietta mi appartiene_ = This t-shirt belongs to me; _Mi_ _ricordo_ = My souvenir; _Cosa credi di fare?_ = What do you think you're doing?; _Non dovresti essere cosi debole_ = You shouldn't be so weak; _Va' al diavolo!_ = Go to hell!; _Credo di no_ = I don't think so; _Hai rovinato la buona reputazione della nostra famiglia _= You've ruined our family's good reputation_; Bruciare _= To be on fire; _(Una) bella dormita_ = (A) goodnight's sleep; _Dolore straziante_ = Agonizing pain; _Criminale_ = Criminal; _Mettere fine a quest_o = To put an end to this

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* * *

"So, I don't get it," Juliet said to Samuelson as they took turns scanning the journal and loose notes for anything useful, also studying the printouts of B. Notte's properties. Juliet had taken a seat at the computer, scanning the Internet for any possible listings on "Notte" and "locksmith", "Bernise Locksmith Co.", and also running the other names from Shawn's list.

"What?" Samuelson asked, reading Lassiter's account of the apartment attack that had put him in the hospital. He had already commented to Juliet that the handwriting was different than both Shawn's and Lassiter's; Juliet pointed out the small "as told to hs" on the bottom of one of the pages.

"Well, I heard— as it was explained to me, the Cavaliere family left town to start over."

"They did— most left, but there were some that went underground— the direct family of the son."

"Direct family?" Juliet froze. She grabbed the journal, reading the names.

"That's right," Samuelson continued. "From what I remember from the article, the son's elderly parents stayed, as well as his only brother, maybe some nieces or nephews or cousins." He glanced up and saw that Juliet had about pushed her nose against the pages. He looked over her shoulder. "You thinking some of those names may be the family?" She nodded tersely.

This whole time— since the trial more than ten years ago, this family— knights disguised as nights— had been around. Had they been watching Lassiter for long? Preying on him in small ways? Or was this their big crescendo? Juliet glanced her watch, then pushed to her feet. "This is taking too long. We need to go. You've got the addresses."

Samuelson nodded. "Let me see if the Chief is ready." The two went down the hall and Samuelson went towards her office, getting stopped by an officer. As they talked, Juliet waited, her fists balled at her sides. _Carlton, where are you?_ she thought suddenly, missing him more than ever. She could picture him the way he was before all this— and she wanted that man back.

"We're stalled," Samuelson told Juliet after a few minutes. She fidgeted, flicking her eyes in the direction of Vick's office. The door was shut, but the blinds were open and Juliet could see her superior pacing, a phone pressed to her ear.

"What's the hold up?"

"The warrant."

Juliet's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me?" She huffed with frustration just as Vick's voice cut through the door. "I have evidence of two abductions! Get off that ugly high horse of yours and get me that warrant!"

A couple of the officers nearby winced. "Way to butter 'em up," March commented in a low voice.

"There's no time for that shit," Samuelson tossed over his shoulder. Juliet offered him a tiny smile. He was a decent partner— but she already had one.

"Don't you try to put rank on me!" Vick shouted into the phone. "I have at least two civilians and an injured detective—" They couldn't hear the rest of her response; her voice rose again. "I said 'detective'! He's been cleared of all charges."

Juliet snapped her head to Samuelson. "You think that's lip service?" she asked, her eyes darting across his face.

"Don't know," Adam commented. "She does sound quite serious."

"I would!" Vick yelled. "I would come down there, right now, but there isn't any time! Do you really want their blood on your hands?"

There was whispering behind them. Juliet turned to see fourteen or fifteen uniformed officers standing near one of the back walls, waiting, Buzz, March, and Hamilton among them. Samuelson explained he'd rounded them up— they were waiting for orders of when and where to move.

". . . play god with my detective's life!" Vick shouted angrily. "With a valuable police consultant's, a retired SBPD Sergeant's . . . who has well served this city . . ." She seemed to, for the first time, catch a glimpse of her audience. Instead of throwing them daggers for staring, she shook her head, rolling her eyes in the direction of the phone, before quickening her pacing. Her mouth was tight while she listened.

"Wow," Buzz murmured. Some other officers murmured similar sentiments.

Juliet nodded in his direction. She hoped her superior was going to get what she wanted— soon. She was antsy, as were the officers standing behind her, to go— find their missing.

* * *

Shawn ignored the gun pointing at him the second he heard Lassiter's cry. Lassiter was now facing them, his eyes slits, his face icy white amid all the bruises and cuts he'd recently sustained, with fresh blood dripping from his cheek and lips. _No, this wasn't happening. That creep was about to disappear with Lassiter again . . . _

Of all the plans Notte had confessed, he had never told Shawn exactly the way he wanted to bring the end to Lassiter's life_. _If it was true, if he'd really waited more than ten years— either he was too cowardly to do it or he had something elaborate in mind. But Shawn had apparently ruined what Notte had considered the worst thing— a death just like his brother's. So, what was left? And Lassiter showing up here had been a surprise to Notte, right? _He'd said over and over that he wanted Lassiter to suffer— "to the point of dying without dying"— until Notte said so, _Shawn remembered with a chill. Shot to the throat— Shawn reasoned that might be "too quick" according to Notte. He squirmed.

Cybil had to hold Henry tightly in place while Notte broke Lassiter's wrist, because despite the gun on Shawn, Henry tried to step in. He'd already allowed Notte hurt Lassiter once— in a place where he'd had the chance to stop it much sooner. Now, he had no control of this situation; he'd made promises he couldn't keep. He had yelled for Notte to stop, but it had been hard to hear his voice over the snap of the bone and Carlton's anguished yell. _I brought him here, _Henry thought miserably. _That's just what they wanted. I'm such an idiot._

"What do you think you're doing?" Shawn called out to Notte as he positioned the gun under Lassiter's chin. Notte ignored him, instead whispering something in Lassie's ear. Shawn's voice quivered, but he pushed on. He wondered how far Notte would get with Lassiter in his state; Shawn figured if it were himself, he would have already passed out from the pain. He wasn't even sure how Lassiter had managed to remain upright before— he hoped it was with more than just adrenaline. "You don't want to do this."

Notte sneered back. "Yes, I do, young Mr. Spencer. And you know why." Lassiter trembled, undulated fear making the space and people before him blur. He felt Notte pull him closer and tighter against his chest. He blinked hard, trying to see clearly. He caught Henry scowling, struggling against Cybil. Lassiter thought about Henry's insistence that he needed to be looked out for. He knew Henry was not a blood relation, his father or brother, but Henry looked as furious as he had when Notte had leveled the glock at Shawn's face.

Carlton's eyes opened a little further; Henry saw it was a real effort. The fingers on Lassiter's broken wrist already looked a swollen blue. Notte took a step backwards, pulling his prisoner along easily. It seemed Lassiter was barely aware of the movement.

"No," Shawn hissed. He noticed Cybil had pulled the gun from his head, and moved it back to Henry. "Dad," Shawn said in a small voice. He raised his eyebrows, and then turned back towards Lassiter.

"Shawn's right, you don't want to do this," Henry said carefully, ignoring the press of the .45. Notte's finger was poised on the trigger; if he was at all provoked, Lassiter wouldn't have a chance. "There's still time to— not do that."

"What is that, Mr. Spencer?" Notte asked calmly, amused.

"Become a cop killer."

Donia sighed dramatically. "Oh, but he is no longer police," she muttered. If Henry heard her, he ignored it. She had dropped into a chair after her argument with Cybil, staring coldly at the scene before her. Shawn wondered if she'd even flinched or become the slightest bit upset by what her father had just done to Lassiter; he doubted it.

"What, Mr. Spencer, do you purpose I do instead?" Notte questioned, not expecting a real answer. He signaled Cybil to release Henry. Henry was surprised to have his arm back and the gun away from his neck. Tentatively, he eased away from Cybil and Marte, towards Shawn's chair. Cybil trained the .45 on Henry, just in case he should try some heroic act.

"Just— please— let him go," Shawn implored, interrupting whatever Henry might have said. He was reassured by Henry's warm hand pressing on his shoulder. "He's not— what you've made him out to be."

Lassiter forced his eyes open. That was Spencer's voice again, soft and hoarse, but pleading for _his_ life. He noticed vaguely that both Spencers were together again; as if Notte knew that Henry wouldn't dare a rush at them; no, he cared too much for Lassiter's life to risk it.

Shawn twisted, still working in the futile attempt to get free. He ignored how his raw skin grated against rope and wood, but winced as he realized his fingers were immobile. "You're blaming the wrong—"

Notte lifted Lassiter's left arm an inch from his body and then jerked it back, slamming both the broken wrist and the bruised ribs; an act which caused Shawn to clamp his mouth shut. Lassiter whimpered deep in his throat, his eyes shut tight. Notte, unfinished with his malice, tugged on Lassiter's unbroken wrist, just enough so that it caused a sharp shot of pain from his elbow to his shoulder. He grunted, his eyes watering. "I would think very carefully if I were you, young Mr. Spencer, before completing that sentence," Notte threatened. He tugged Lassiter's wrist again for good measure.

Shawn gulped, but forced himself to look Notte directly in the eye. "You're making a mistake," Shawn said quietly. He was very nervous, watching Notte pull Lassiter away from them. He, like Henry, didn't want to do or say the wrong thing— to provoke Notte into killing Lassiter right in front of them, with both of them unable to stop it. Though Notte hadn't detailed his murder plan, Shawn suspected that Notte had something dramatic in mind— as well as something private. So that meant Lassiter was "safe" for now, but once they were out that door. . . . _god_. Shawn's stomach twisted violently. None of this was supposed to happen.

"So, you would propose I release you, your father and the detective here?" Notte asked amusedly, leaning out from behind Lassiter's thin frame. "I burned your ransom, young Mr. Spencer." Lassiter had started to wheeze, his eyes rolling back almost the whole way only to reopen just as slowly. He felt movement, and thought he understood it— the Spencers were getting further away from him.

"I'll make a deal with you," Shawn heard himself say. "You let my father and Lassie go, and you can— keep me." He tried to ignore Henry's sharp gasp.

"We did not even want you," Donia spoke up coldly.

"Yeah," Shawn continued as if he hadn't heard her, "you can hold me for a real ransom— I'm a very valuable commodity to the SBPD, you know. Really, they tell me I'm worth my weight in pineapple."

"Ignore my son," Henry cut in with a frown. Later, he was going to slap the back of Shawn's head, _so hard_. "I'll stay. But they go."

"It is not that simple," Notte said with a dark smile and narrowed eyes. "I admire— though it also sickens me— your purposed sacrifices— what you would do for _him_." Notte tugged Lassiter's wrist to hear his grunt of pain, the entire time never losing his grip on the glock. "You know— all of you— too much." He took two steps backward, pulling Lassiter with him. "It's true what my Donia says. We didn't know what would happen with the drug— but our best hope for despair— abandonment— pain— we haveh reaped a near perfect harvest."

Lassiter felt Notte's hot breath on his cheek and was surprised he could separate this sensation; that it was, for a moment, more unpleasant than the physical pain of his injuries. He realized slowly that it was most unpleasant because it was a repetitive memory— Notte enjoyed getting in his victims' faces, much closer than comfortable, because it was about him having more power, more control. And Donia . . . she was the same way, though her form of torment more subtle. Lassiter winced, not out of pain but because a terrible realization hit him— the fresh bruises on Spencer's neck and face were most likely the result of Notte's hand— Notte's anger.

He had been listening to the Spencers' voices with a horrified awe— first Shawn, then Henry, trying to smooth talk Notte into letting him go. It was a nice gesture, more than— and he hated it. This was not how it was supposed to go— _he_ should be the one stepping in the line of fire as Head Detective, offering his protection and stability. But he realized he had, as Carlton Lassiter, suspended detective, civilian. It was a strange dynamic, the three of them working hard to protect each other. His pain and terror hadn't made him _that_ stupid; Notte now had exactly what he wanted— _me_, Carlton thought. _He's not ever going to let me go_.

"He wasn't aupposed to remember a thing," Donia said to no one in particular. "That was ideal." She uncrossed her legs and hopped off the chair where she had perched, offering Shawn a scowl but keeping her distance from him. "And then for so long, we haveh your police friends going . . . they really believed he was bad killer."

Lassiter grunted a word that sound like "scum". Notte dug his hard square fingernails into the skin of his palm. Lassiter bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lips from moving.

"Stop it," Shawn called out, enraged he had to watch Notte beat up on Lassiter. He wanted to add the word "coward" but it died in his mouth, replaced instead by a slight whine. "Why do you have to terrorize him?"

"You know why," Notte snarled back. Lassiter flicked his eyes towards Notte's voice. "He is guilty— he must die for his crimes."

"What crimes?" Henry cut in. Notte had mentioned this before, but hadn't elaborated. He wondered if Shawn knew what Notte was talking about. Earlier, Shawn had told Lassiter that the detective had done _nothing_ against this family— though Notte continued to insist Lassiter was at fault. _What was this?_ Henry wondered with worry. _A falsified charge? A small infraction blown out of proportion by years of repeating the same lie to oneself— until this lie became "true"?_ Henry felt a burning in his gut so strong that for a moment he thought he'd been shot; he hadn't— this was the shape his fear had taken. Lassiter was literally in the hands of a dangerous man who was convinced of Lassiter's delusory guilt— and was determined Lassiter was going to suffer for it. Henry grabbed the back of Shawn's chair, his knees unstable. _Kid— I'm sorry._

"He knows what he has done," Notte said cryptically. "Have you not remembered all, Mr. Lassiter?" he asked. Carlton narrowed his eyes, or thought he did; it was hard to tell. His whole right arm felt as though he was holding it in fire— yet within his bones, the ache as cold as a ghost.

"No, he doesn't—" Shawn shot back, his anger nearly getting the best of him. He froze, holding his breath to keep from yelling out any more words, when he saw Notte's finger start to close around the trigger. _Lassie. God, no. No_. He remained in pause until Notte relaxed his trigger finger. "You can't really think you're going to get out of here with him," Shawn said flatly, watching Notte carefully.

"And why shouldn't I think that?"

"Because you won't get very far. They'll hunt you— Santa Barbara takes care of its own." The words were hollow, after all that had happened. Lassiter still appreciated hearing them; that life he used to lead seemed long gone— years ago. _Had it even been real? _ He felt movement but made no attempt to fight; though he knew Notte was going to take him, he wasn't yet ready to die.

"Child, you are vexing," Notte commented with a frown. "Marte, gag our _sensitivo_." While Marte advanced on his son, Henry forced himself to stay rooted in his spot. "Besides," Notte continued, taking two more steps, "I have insurance policy should something get in my way— make nice shield till he is bloodless." He barked a laugh right in Lassiter's ear, who flinched.

Shawn yelled as the gag was shoved back into his mouth, secured as tightly as before. He felt the physical ache of his powerlessness expanding in his chest. Lassie looked awful . . . not in any shape to move, yet Notte was moving him— still assuming control despite Lassiter's bravery. Lassie had stood up to him; Shawn was in awe of that, especially with all his knowledge of the drug binding Lassie to his fears. Shawn felt a surge of rage that shook his limbs. This wasn't right. _I promised I would keep him from crazy— god— that monster's going to kill him._ Marte blocked Shawn's view for about thirty seconds; Shawn heard footsteps, one set walking, the other dragging, then the obnoxious squeal of squeaky hinges.

"Oh, but perhaps you are feeling left out?" Donia asked. She retrieved her clutch from an uncomfortable looking wooden bench and pulled from it a gold plated .25 ACP, appraising it lovingly before cocking it. "We take you too," she purred, gazing at Henry and then Shawn, before turning to Marte. "That is right?"

"_Si_," Marte agreed. He moved from Shawn and grabbed for Henry, who saw the movement out of the corner of his right eye. Shawn yelled a muffled warning and Henry jumped just out of Marte's way, before realizing Cybil still had him in the line of the .45. He froze. The gun was inches from his face now. He felt the crush of Marte's hand on his shoulder; gasping as he realized exactly why Shawn's arm retained the hand print bruise this long. "On. Your. Knees," Cybil growled. Henry sank to the concrete floor, feeling a cold jarring in the pit of his stomach when he saw that Notte was out of sight. And he had Lassiter.

* * *

Vick sent eight officers to B. Notte's Leadbetter Beach business, telling them to be discreet and hold their positions until they heard from her, unless they suspected goings-on. She cursed that the minor clue Henry had left them was so vague.

She, O'Hara, Samuelson and Officers McNab, Travers, March and Hamilton went to the residence first— a modest two story A-frame that wore its outside face as ordinary as its few neighboring bungalows. It was empty. Funny, they thought, because at first it didn't have a sinister air. They called out Shawn's name but no one answered. They moved efficiently through the first few rooms, then the upstairs, making discoveries odd enough to quickly sour their stomachs.

In the living room area, they found cardboard boxes, bottles of pills, samples and other pharmaceutics all bearing the Central Coast Insignia. On the floor next to boxes was a security pass— for North Coast Pharmaceuticals, with Lassiter's picture on it.

"This must be what Max Sweets was talking about on that DVD," Juliet said, pointing out the pass to Samuelson. Adam nodded, and reminded her of its mention in the journal.

Buzz and Hamilton poked around a small office on the first floor. They came across documents nearly identical to what had been dropped off at the station via anonymous tip. McNab hissed a low curse, staring at them.

Juliet and Samuelson were first to climb the stairs, and entered one of the rooms, from the initial looks of it, a woman's bedroom. Juliet saw it first but heard Samuelson gasp behind her before she could speak. "This is sick," he muttered as her eyes swept the walls. "Chief!" Samuelson called, leaning out door. "You have to see this!"

The plain white walls were wrapped with stalkerish newspaper clippings of _every time_ Lassiter had been mentioned or had had his picture in any newspaper since the late 1990s, for police cases and social obligations in the community. Older and recent black and white candids and color Polaroids of Lassiter also covered the walls— outside the SBPD police station, out in the community, eating lunch, picking up coffee, pulling his gun out at a crime scene, standing outside his apartment building, inside his apartment— pictures of Lassiter asleep, someone obviously standing over him with a camera. Little red hearts had been drawn around Lassiter's face in each picture. "D.N.-C." hearts "C.L" , "Donia + Carlton = Bliss" and "Donia Lassiter" had been written around some of the pictures with the heart shapes on them. Under one candid of Lassiter smiling, she had written, "Come with me and be my love." There were pictures of the woman taped to pictures of Lassiter, big hearts encircling their faces, with the caption "Happily Ever".

_This was Donia_, Juliet thought with wide eyes. This was the woman Carlton had mentioned repeatedly in the journal, the one who'd been across the street from his apartment building, watching him, who'd tried to talk to him or kiss him at the Santa Barbara Police Station— who had cut him and slapped him and drugged him. Juliet clenched her teeth with fury; she hadn't had the chance to prepare her hate for this woman, but now it was here, within her.

"Juliet," Samuelson breathed, "look at this." Juliet turned towards him, following his pointing towards a seemingly relatively new collection of pictures and clippings.

Karen popped her head in. "What did you find?" she asked before she froze, and then walked into the room to study the clippings and pictures herself. "Oh, dear god." She walked through them quickly, nauseated. Her heart thudded with dread as she circled towards the pictures her detectives were looking over.

The new collection had documented Lassiter in different setting. "He wasn't kept here," Juliet muttered. In one, he was on the floor of what seemed to be a warehouse, he was unconscious, his hair a mess, as if he'd been sleeping, curled up on his side— wearing boxers and a t-shirt, with only "SB" visible. Another showed him in the clothes he'd been found in— what they'd seen on the video as well— his hands bound, his mouth gagged. His eyes were piercing, even in black and white.

"His face," Samuelson said, looking closer at the pictures. He had dark marks on his the side of his face in the one, and the others the bruises on his face and neck were much clearer.

"I'm going to kill this bitch," Juliet snapped, startling her partner and Vick. She had made a fist, as if the woman was in the room to take the punch.

Vick, shocked and disturbed, started to turn towards them, when something caught her eye. "What in god's name?" They all looked. On the woman's neatly made bed was a gray t-shirt. It had been folded with care and was half propped up by a flowered pillow. Its front bore black, block letters that read "SBPD". It was faded and frayed in places from multiple washes.

Vick snatched it from the bed, holding up the extra large gray t-shirt to get a closer look. The shirt had a distinct odor of male sweat— and the faintest trace of the after shave or cologne that Lassiter wore while on duty. She clutched the shirt tightly, but managed to show it to her detectives.

"Holy crap— he's wearing that in this picture," Samuelson muttered, pointing to the photograph of Lassiter curled up on a floor, unconscious. Juliet let a gasp escape her; she shook her hands out hard to stop her shaking. As Vick was studying the other wall, there was a yell from one of the other rooms. Vick went first, telling her officers of O'Hara and Samuelson's discovery.

"She's not the only one obsessed with him, Chief," Buzz told her, his face chalky.

March heaved a sigh. "There's a lot of deranged stuff in this room, Chief. Looks like Detective Lassiter was being stalked for a long time. Some of these clippings date back to 1998."

"What?" Vick snapped. Her insides felt cold. As she stepped in, Karen felt she had separated completely from her skin. Over the rush of guilty emotions, she heard McNab say, "This B. Notte guy wants Detective Lassiter dead," and she took in the full disturbedness of the man's room. Karen felt a sharp pain behind her eyes.

"Steel yourselves," Vick said over her shoulder as Juliet and Samuelson appeared. She was having a hard time keeping things together herself.

In this bedroom, obviously a man's, they found a similar array of clippings and pictures. However, instead of little hearts and an obvious creepy affection, the collection radiated a barely contained rage and hostility. "Death" and _"Morte_" and "_Una dolorosa morte_" were written across several clippings and pictures. "Carlton Lassiter Dies" and "_Sepolte Vive_" were scrawled under three of the pictures, two of which had Lassiter's face X-ed out. Several other pictures showed red slashes drawn across Lassiter's neck, mouth, nose and both eyes. There were printouts on the walls of what looked like lyrics to different songs. Around Lassiter's pictures, some of the words from the printouts had been written. "No mercy", "Ask for another day" and "I'll be damned if I let you back into this town", "Who else will taunt me" and "Now I lie in my grave", "Met him in a hotel", "Liar and a cheat in prison" and "Accused of telling the truth". There were keys— exact to what they had found in the journal.

"Oh, my god," Juliet hissed, feeling her stomach dry heave. She held her hand against her mouth, trying to keep herself from losing it. She gulped, thinking of the gruesome police photograph from the Cavaliere file as she went to the wall, pointing out to Vick and Samuelson the picture of Lassiter where his facial features had been drawn over with red. The malevolent hatred of this man was crushing her; she closed her eyes briefly. This man was erroneous in his thinking, threatening Carlton. _How _dare_ you hurt my partner,_ she thought angrily. As she scanned some of the lyrics, she silently asked the man the question, _Is _this_ worth the price _you'll_ have to pay?_

"Holy—" Samuelson muttered, snatching up a couple of photographs from a dresser with his gloved hands. The first was a Polaroid of Lassiter, Juliet and Karen on the steps outside of the Santa Barbara Police Station. The words "Lollipop Gestapo" had been written across their faces in red pen. There was also a recent black and white photograph of Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster, taken outside of the Psych office. Gus's face was X-ed out and Shawn's was circled. Across Shawn's mouth, a black box had been drawn. Underneath, "Silenced" had been written in rough red print. So it was true— this man also knew where Shawn Spencer was— and was doing whatever he could to assure Shawn kept his mouth shut. _You lose,_ Vick thought. _We know everything now._

"This is B. Notte's carnage," Juliet said, forcing herself to keep looking. "He did all of this." _What could he be doing right now?_

"B. Cavaliere, if you want to be specific," Samuelson muttered, sounding chilled. He thumbed through a stack of papers that been under the photographs on the dresser. "According to these, this man— whatever he's calling himself these days— he was Roman Cavaliere's only brother."

"This is the brother who stayed?" Juliet repeated. Her hands were shaking again.

"Roman Cavaliere— the drug lord? The case?" Vick snapped her head up. She took the obituary, which was hand written, as if it had never been put in the paper— no, it hadn't, and scanned it. _Roman Cavaliere is survived by . . ._ There was a long list of names, included among them was Bernise Cavaliere, oldest son and brother to the deceased. _Oh, my god. Carlton has been in danger— for years— and I ignored it._

Samuelson shook his head at her facial expression. "We didn't have all the pieces, Chief. We were only seeing a quarter of the picture."

Vick nodded tightly, then rounded up her officers. She told March and Travers to remain at the residence and secure the scene. "All right— let's get over to the business." She led the way out, urging them to hurry by her pace. "They've been playing us— come on! We've got our people to get back."

* * *

"What do you mean, you're taking us?" Henry asked quietly, his head down. He had no idea if this was true; it seemed this place was their headquarters— and it was where they'd held their captives. Donia had come closer, her pistol hanging at her thigh. It was gleaming in the harsh buzz of yellow lighting and his hands itched to snatch from her long fingers. It would be a stupid move, especially since Shawn wouldn't be able to run for cover should any shooting start. Henry worried that now Notte was gone, they would kill Shawn, then him, before he could think of a way out.

"My father say to you no police, but how can we know this for certain?" Donia asked. "If we have you, they will not shoot us."

"Please, let my son—"

"Shut up!" Cybil bellowed, smashing Henry's cheek with the butt of the gun. Shawn yelped, as if he'd been the one hit. Henry dropped lower on the floor, clutching a hand to his cheek. His hand was wet with blood, but it was only cut and not gushing.

"Maybe we do not need your son," Cybil taunted. He guided Donia's gun hand toward Shawn until her outstretched arm was to his neck. Cybil tilted his head at Marte, who jerked Shawn's head back by a wad of his hair. Donia tilted the muzzle until it sat directly in the hollow of Shawn's throat. _Like this?_ she gestured with her free arm, jingling some gold bangles. Shawn bit down on the gag, a small moan escaping him. Henry had partially turned, being forced to witness this.

"Please," Henry pleaded. "I'll do whatever you want. Anything. Just don't hurt him. Please." Henry's voice was too tight and pitched, like a taut violin string barely touched with a bow.

"_Lasci_," Cybil told Donia and she withdrew her arm with a slow burn smile. Marte released Shawn's hair and reached into his coat pocket for a switchblade. He bent to cut ropes that bound Shawn's feet to the chair. _Was that for real?_ Shawn wondered, his heart beating as hard as the pulsing on top of his head where Marte had grabbed him. He wondered if Cybil was acting off of Notte's guidelines, or if this little stunt had been some previously unseen maliciousness Cybil possessed all on his own.

"Save some of that rope. We will need to tie up the old fool."

Marte grunted in understanding. Shawn knew it was stupid, especially since the huge bodyguard had a knife but as soon as Marte had cut one of his feet free, he kicked out. He was so angry that he was helpless, that his father was getting hurt and that Notte had gotten his hands on Lassiter again all because of him. He knew he was going to pay, but it felt great for a few seconds when he got Marte in the stomach. Marte scowled but only moved to Shawn's other foot. It was Donia who retaliated. "_Ragazzaccio_!" she cried, giving Shawn a slap with enough force to turn his head. He stared back. As before, an angry red hand print blotched Shawn's cheek. He clamped his teeth around the cloth, praying there wasn't any broken glass lying about that she could happen to get her hands on.

Henry winced with both shoulders when he heard the slap, but kept quiet. He was trying to come up with a plan, but they were all dead ends. His cell phone had been confiscated when he arrived; he wasn't sure if the big guy still had it, let alone how to get it and dial inconspicuously. He thought of the slightly cryptic note he'd scrawled at the hospital.

Though fear for their personal safety was tripling, Henry was distressed about Lassiter. Where was Notte taking him? How far did he think they'd get, especially after that brute had aggravated Carlton's previous injuries, and he'd broken the Carlton's wrist? Maybe Notte hoped that Lassiter would try to make a break for it, or pass out, so he'd have an excuse to kill him more quickly. _Goddammit. He'd promised the younger man he'd—_

First things first. He had to get Shawn safe first, that was his most important job. Second, he had to get himself safe. But how long might that take? Henry didn't know if Notte was stronger than Lassiter, but he was definitely crueler. Sadistic. And he had that glock positioned awkwardly; Henry could only see white hot nothingness when he thought of Lassiter stumbling with the gun on him at that angle. Henry clenched his fists. Even after his many years as a sergeant, he couldn't force out the right persuasion that may have rescued Lassiter from— _Stop it,_ he told himself. _Lassiter is _not_ dead. Notte needs him. . . . But for how long? _

Marte passed a strand of cord he'd salvaged from the bottom of Shawn's chair to Cybil. "Cover him," Cybil told Donia as he handed her the .45 and took the rope. Shawn really didn't like the idea of Donia holding _two_ guns. Cybil roughly pulled Henry's hands behind him, looping the rope quickly and tightly wrist over wrist, so that Henry would have a harder time of getting free on his own. Marte cut the ropes lashing Shawn to the chair into long pieces, just in case they would be needed. Shawn, obviously not learning from the slap, bolted to his feet. His legs protested, cramped as they were. Shawn could almost feel the color of the pins and needles— nails, really— a pukey lime green, blue-purple— spiking up and down his legs. He couldn't even feel his feet up to the ankles; why had he thought this was a good idea? He teetered, then they folded. He would have hit the floor hard if Marte hadn't grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him back on the chair.

"You should know better," Donia commented. She gave the .45 back to Cybil and took a step towards Shawn. Shawn glared back; it seemed to be the dumbest thing _she_ could say. Sitting back down after than was almost worse; Shawn wished he could curl up on the floor and wait out the blinding ache of sleeping limbs finishing the agonizing peruse of his system.

"No, Donia, I do it," Marte said. For one horrible half second Shawn and Henry both wondered what that statement meant. Then Marte smacked Shawn with his open palm. Shawn's cry was gurgled; a stream of blood flowed from his nose. He dropped his head, tears flooding his eyes, taking many shallow breaths. Henry wanted them all dead. His son was crying next to him and he couldn't do anything at the moment to help him.

Unlike Lassiter, Shawn had been mostly spared from Marte's abuse. The worst, up until this moment, had been the hard tugs of his hair, and that punch to his cheek— which, Shawn realized now as his nose burned with blood— could have easily knocked him cold or even snapped his neck. Shawn shuddered visibly and choked back more tears. He didn't like knowing this— even if it were only speculation. Some blood had dripped onto the gag, and he tasted its copper unwillingly.

Shawn closed his eyes, his memory flashing over all of Lassie's injuries. The ribs, and a long partially stitched up slash that ran from his collar bone to his navel, the black eye, the split lip and swollen nose. The gash and other cuts, the bruises. And still— Lassiter had been standing. _Barely_, Shawn reflected, but Lassie had managed to be steady— and demanding. Shawn knew without hearing his voice that Lassiter was beyond terrified, but he— stood up to them. Shawn felt an odd pride for the detective's actions; the last time he'd seen Lassiter, the man had been a mess. But now Notte had Lassiter— and it made Shawn furious. This wasn't fair; he'd been fully prepared to give Lassie all the credit for saving his and Henry's lives. Shawn sniffed, inhaling some blood. He groaned. His nose stung, but he couldn't tell if it was broken. _Don't be a baby_, he chided himself. Even if it was— he couldn't let it hinder him from— finding Lassiter and getting him back. Alive.

"You are ready to bleed more, _si_?" Donia asked Shawn, paused in front of his chair. He cursed at her as she leveled her handgun at his face. He wondered vaguely as he watched her curl her fingers around the trigger, if the gun was actually loaded, or if she actually knew how to use it. Henry jerked his head towards this scene, struggling to get to his feet. He groaned as Cybil pounded his shoulder with the butt of the .45; Henry's knees slammed hard against the concrete, jarring his teeth. The back of Henry's skull throbbed. _God, are we just going to die here like this?_

Shawn realized quickly that he didn't want to know if Donia was a pro with a gun. Why was she aiming it at him? Sweat had broken out on his forehead, on his neck and under his arms. Yesterday, was it?, she had screamed "Die!" in his face . . . today, was she going to follow through? Her eyes were cold, but her lips wore traces of a closed mouth smile. Shawn turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to move, but Marte's hand was holding him to the chair.

"Shawn!" Henry yelled out, though the sound of his cry was swallowed by the thundering crash of metal hitting wood, echoes that ran the course of the building. Henry's stomach pitched with an exhilarated anxiety when he heard familiar voices.

* * *

The officers came around the back, with Vick and the others forcing their way in through the front. As soon as they identified themselves, Marte and Cybil moved, grabbing at their hostages. Shawn yelped, still unstable on his feet. He legs screamed, and his numb fingers bumped painfully as Marte slid his arm around his neck, pinning Shawn against his chest. Donia leveled her gun at officers behind them, yelling out something in Italian. Vick, Buzz McNab, Detective Adam Samuelson and other uniformed officers closed in around Cybil, who had the .45 pressed against Henry's temple. They saw right away that both of the Spencers' faces were bleeding, with Shawn the paler and more bruised of the two.

Vick didn't see Lassiter anywhere— and the other man— Bernise Notte— wasn't here either. Her blood chilled. _Carlton_. . . . Though she hated to, she pushed the thought to the side and focused on the rescue at hand.

"Let them go!"

"We will shoot you! Surrender now!"

Donia was the first to surrender, only because she had no human shield. Shawn couldn't see it, but thought he heard her yipping as her gun was taken away and she was put into custody.

"Drop your weapons! Release them!" Both Henry and Shawn were having a hard time discerning where the voices were coming from— not only were there at least sixteen cops here, but their voices were bouncing off the walls. Shawn couldn't move his head at all, but had tried to catch Henry's eyes before Marte dragged him backwards, towards the room where he'd been kept.

Vick knew full well— by now— that Cybil was the real killer. She locked her eyes with Henry for a moment, and he nodded slightly. "You have five seconds to release him," Vick growled, "or I'll take you down myself."

"Will you?" Cybil sneered. Henry gasped, feeling the muzzle dig into his head.

"I know what you did to my detective," Vick snapped, boring her eyes into his. "I have you on tape threatening to kill him— in a basement lab at Central Coast. Let me tell you— I'd love to get my hands around _your_ throat."

"You— know," Cybil said flatly. The encounter seemed to flash over Cybil's eyes. Then he laughed dryly. "I knew the risk was too great." Henry flicked his eyes towards his captor, and felt the weapon slip away from his head as Cybil dropped the gun to his side. Henry moved, and Samuelson yanked him out of the way. "Of course you do," Cybil muttered as Hamilton and McNab pushed him to his stomach and handcuffed him. Cybil was pulled up and dumped on the wooden bench next to Donia; both were checked over for concealed weapons.

"Are you all right?" Vick asked Henry over her shoulder, now pointing her gun towards Shawn's captor.

"Yeah. Get Shawn," Henry breathed. One of the officers guarding Donia and Cybil started to untie Henry's hands.

"Don't move!" Juliet yelled, leveling her gun at Marte, who had Shawn in a choke hold. "I break his neck," Marte growled. Officers got as close as possible to Marte, who was unarmed, but could quickly make good on his threat. Marte turned his head from side to side, checking to see where the officers were. Donia and Cybil stared at him dully— neither seemed to care for much what could or would happen.

"You don't really want to add murder to kidnapping and assault and battery charges," Samuelson shouted at Marte. "Do you? Let Shawn go!"

Marte tucked his arm tighter around Shawn's neck. Shawn thought his eyes might pop right out of their sockets. _No . . . can't end . . . like this . . ._ Something wet trailed down his cheeks and he gurgled. His jaw was so sore he didn't know if he'd be able to open it.

"I recognize your voice— you attacked Lassiter," Juliet cried out. She caught the slightest of nods from Shawn— he would know. This was also Shawn's kidnapper then— another nod. The look in Shawn's eyes was clear— _help me._

Marte rumbled a laugh, amused. "I had him, just like this," Marte whispered in Shawn's ear. "So easy to kill." Shawn's muscles tightened. "You too think you can win. You won't."

"If you have the shot, take it!" Samuelson cried to the officers behind Marte. Shawn had his jaw clamped around the gag, his eyes watering and wide. He couldn't take his eyes off of Juliet. She looked angry enough to shoot someone today— Shawn sincerely hoped it wasn't going to be him.

"Release him or we'll shoot," Vick called out. "You're surrounded, Marte."

Marte's hard expression fumbled. Shawn gasped. _How did she know that? _

"That's right," Vick went on, encouraged. "I know you attacked my detective, you bastard. And we know you kidnapped Shawn Spencer. We have your DNA at the scene of two crimes. It's over."

_Wow,_ Shawn's thoughts hummed. _I've missed a lot._

"Stand down!" Vick commanded. She took a step towards him. "Any of you have a clear shot?" she called to her the officers behind Marte.

Marte flicked his eyes towards Donia and Cybil, then back to the cops.

"This is your last chance, Marte," Juliet cried out. Three or four officers yelled some gobbled words all at once.

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut, fully expecting rounds of shots. He hoped he wouldn't be nicked by a stray bullet or that Marte wouldn't crush him if the giant toppled forward. The pressure on his throat loosened. His eyes popped open; was Marte really giving up? Shawn surged forward, but Marte hadn't completely let go, and Shawn's neck and face jarred against his arm. His knees were shaking all of a sudden at the prospect of moving; he hadn't moved in four days, other than his failed attempt at standing up earlier. The only reason his legs hadn't given out now was that Marte had been holding him on his toes. The arm slipped more; Shawn knew his legs were giving out.

Marte released Shawn, backing away from him with his arms raised. Cops were yelling and him to get down on his knees, not to move, where to put his hands.

Shawn crumpled, hitting the floor on his right side with a muffled squeak. He tried his best to break the fall with his knees; it worked a little bit, and he tucked his head against his chest, closing his eyes and bracing for the impact. It still hurt.

Shawn heard what sounded like a dozen people calling his name, yelling with concern if he was all right. He was hauled to his feet before he could even open his eyes.

Juliet threw her arms around him in a tight embrace. Shawn trembled in her grasp. _It's real. She's really here,_ he thought with awe. He'd thought of her many times, and had nearly convinced himself he'd never smell her hair or see her bright eyes again. "God, Shawn, you're okay," she whispered, pressing her cheek against his; she had missed him terribly; her heart pounded with relief. "Don't you scare me like that again," she hissed in his ear, knowing full well that he probably would. Shawn's muffled voice startled her and she pulled back and yanked the gag from his mouth. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed carefully at his nose. His eyes were wet and he let her stabilize him, leaning heavily against her.

Henry appeared and started to untie Shawn's hands. The ropes hurt to come off; he winced and bit his dry lips while Henry gasped to see the deep cuts in Shawn's skin— they were raw, oozing blood. Shawn bit his lip hard but a pins and needles sensation stabbed at his fingers, trying his best not to cry out. Shawn tentatively moved his arms, getting a good look— which made his stomach turn— at his bloody wrists. They were his hands, but they were discolored. He wiggled them furiously for the return of circulation, and felt an angry rush of pain travel internally from ear to ear. For a few seconds, standing was just too much; the open space spun around his head in the form of long black lines. Shawn felt Henry's strong, warm arm around his shoulder and let his father hold him for more than a few moments.

"Are you okay, son?" Henry whispered, not failing to notice the shaking of Shawn's whole body. He tightened his grip, uncaring of any stares, or of Shawn's possible embarrassment; but, then again, Shawn didn't make any move to pull away. Shawn nodded, looking his father in the eye.

"Jules," Shawn rasped finally. "How did you know?" He furiously licked his lips, despite their burning, and fought for any spare saliva.

Juliet explained quickly, hitting all the main points from the DVD to the visit with Gus. Henry had taken the cloth from Juliet and used a small corner to quickly wipe away the blood from his own face before continuing where she had left off to dab at Shawn's spilled blood.

"Where is Detective Lassiter?" Vick demanded once Shawn was safe.

"That bastard Notte took him, at gunpoint," Henry said with a scowl.

"What? _Took_ him?" Karen repeated, feeling numb. It was getting harder and harder to keep Lassiter in her sights— and he was in no condition to move.

"Yes— right after that son of a bitch broke his wrist," Henry continued, seething. He heard several gasps. "He's hurt pretty bad— I don't know how far they'll get."

Karen eyed Henry with a frown. "Yes, he would be hurt, wouldn't he?" she muttered, looking Henry over quickly. Henry refused to take the bait. "Lassiter could walk?"

"Not so well," Henry admitted, picturing Lassiter's face. "He's already fainted once."

"He did? When?" Shawn asked, peering at Henry.

Henry sighed. "Before we got here."

Shawn's eyes were wide. "'Before _we_ got here'?" he repeated. "Did you bring him here, Dad?"

Henry nodded. "Yes, it's a long story. Lassiter said he remembered something, but he wouldn't tell me what, other than he thought the outside looked familiar— that they'd brought him here—" Shawn listened intently.

Vick cut in, "Do you know where they are?" Both Spencers shook their heads. "How long ago was this?"

They tried to calculate the passage of time. Finally Henry said, "Ten minutes, maybe fifteen."

"We were going to come to you," Shawn said, looking at Vick, then Juliet. "That morning I got the voice mail from Lassie. When that creep over there took me," Shawn continued, throwing Marte a hard look. Several cops followed his gaze, scowling at the expressionless giant. "Lassie remembered who the real killer was."

"We know, Shawn. We got in a little late in the game, but we're here now," Juliet said. "We found the journal."

Shawn's mouth dropped open. "You— how?" He swung his eyes to Henry. "Dad?"

Henry nodded. "I know everything, Shawn. Someone had to watch out for him while you were indisposed." He said it, but his voice shook. Shawn started telling them what he knew— and what he thought Notte might have planned. They were missing the "where", which was huge, and it seemed like Marte, Cybil and Donia weren't about to offer any help. They still looked treacherous, though seated and cuffed.

"We also just came from Notte's residence," Samuelson said. He briefly explained their findings in Donia's and Notte's rooms.

"We found the t-shirt Lassiter said he was wearing when he was taken— and pictures of him in it, lying unconscious on the floor in here, I assume," Juliet told Shawn, her voice quivering, "in her room." She tilted her chin in Donia's direction. Shawn started to say how obsessed the young woman was with Lassiter when Donia's shrill voice rang out.

"No! That is mine. _Questa maglietta mi appartiene_," Donia called out angrily. _"Mi_ _ricordo_." Cybil and Marte shot her cold looks.

"_Cosa credi di fare?_" Cybil bickered with a frown. "_Non dovresti essere cosi debole_."

"_Va' al diavolo!_" Donia shrieked at Cybil. He spat on the ground.

Shawn felt strangely grateful that Henry was holding onto him so tightly; especially when he'd started to shake. He was going to go under again unless he got some water and some calories in him. But then— no. He felt ashamed . . . how could he be so selfish now? The person he'd promised to protect had been kidnapped— and was slated for death. "Dad, we've got to find Lassie," Shawn muttered low enough so only Henry could hear. His father answered in a taut, remorseful tone of his own that they absolutely must.

* * *

"Listen up, people!" Vick yelled out to her officers. They stopped speaking, looking expectantly in her direction. "Detective Lassiter's been taken hostage, and he's badly injured—" There were murmurs all around the crowd. Vick held up her hand. "He needs our help! Keep in mind that the abductor is Bernise Notte, he's armed with a Steyr M9 glock— and he wants to kill Lassiter. Mr. Spencer feels this bastard wants a seclude area to commit the murder. We need to stop him before he can do that!" Everyone made sounds of agreement, determination mixed with anger. She ordered some officers to comb the beach around the buildings, to search the other empty buildings nearby, anywhere they could have gone. She told them to radio backup and fill them in fast.

"Chief, what about S.W.A.T.?" one of the officers called out.

Vick shook her head. "There isn't time. One of our own needs us right now." She had their attention, fully. "This _bastard_ made this personal— so we should reciprocate." She felt their angry, revved up energy pulsing, and continued. She, O'Hara, Samuelson, McNab, Hamilton and a few other officers would remain here and question the prisoners for an exact location.

"Alert us immediately if you find anything!" Juliet called out before the officers left. She gathered next to Samuelson and Vick and the remaining officers to discuss strategy.

Shawn tried to focus. Where would Notte take Lassiter? He scanned Marte, Cybil. Donia. _Donia_. She was Notte's daughter . . . and she seemed to have a cruel soft spot for Lassie. Even though she was handcuffed, Shawn still figured she could be as dangerous as she wanted to. She was seated on the edge of the bench, turned the slightest bit away from Cybil since their little recent spat. She was pouting, looking bored by everything that had gone down. He eased from his father's grasp, and took a few steps towards the bench. "Donia," he began, "I know you know what your father is—" He got a horrible image. "Tell me where your father would take Lassiter."

She frowned, not wanting to cooperate. "Pooh, pooh. Now you want my opinion. Well, I won't give it to you."

Vick stomped up, looking ready to smack her. "Where is my detective?" she demanded. Shawn kept her back by holding up a hand. He tried to implore Donia, "But you don't want your father to hurt Lassiter, do you?"

"_Credo di no_," she huffed, turning partially into the little Lolita she played so well. "I wanted to keep him."

The air was seeping out of the room. It was snow quiet now, but Shawn knew if he couldn't lift some answers from her, the woman in front of him might be riddled by bullets, a la _Bonnie and Clyde. _

"Wouldn't you— feel sad if something happened to him?" Shawn spat the word "feel" like it was jagged stone that had been forced into his mouth. He couldn't imagine her or her monster father having any real feelings.

Donia crossed her legs; despite being handcuffed, she was graceful about it. Looking thoughtful, she appealed to him. "Ah, what you mean is if I am sad to have his blood all over my hands."

With an angry cry, Shawn's hands were around her throat. "Tell me where Lassiter is, you psychotic skank!" He shook her hard until it seemed everyone in the room was pulling him off of her. She coughed and coughed as if she had swallowed mouthfuls of ocean water, but still managed a wicked gleam to her dark eyes. Shawn struggled to be free.

"She's not worth it, Shawn," his father was telling him firmly.

"She knows, I know she knows!"

* * *

Carlton was going into the darkness, then coming back to intense brightness. Then dark. Bright. Dark. He stumbled; felt the top of his foot scrape along the ground for a few seconds before it was back with the other, being dragged or forced to walk. He seriously thought his wrist had hurt before; well, it had, but before he'd escaped with only cuts, bruises, twists, a sprain. A murder rap. But his bones had been broken as easily as splitting a wishbone. He was glad that he couldn't look down and examine his wrist because he had a terrible feeling some bones had made their way through the skin. _Like that . . . that dream he'd had. No, it was a memory._ Except his arm hadn't really come apart; he had to stop Max Sweets' blood, which was gushing all over everything. Blood, muscle tissue, bone fragments had all come loose, blobbed all over his hands. _So . . . much . . . blood . . . then._ Dark. Bright. Dark, bright. Because he had no desire of having his face shot off, he didn't dare speak to his captor.

" . . . make sure your body is never found," Notte was hissing. "Though it will break my Donia's heart. . ." Lassiter wondered idly if he could get the broken wrist out from his other where it was pinned against his body. If that would even do anything. After all, it wasn't like he could fight with it. All it could do was dangle there like a smashed toy. Ironically, his left arm was acting as a brace; he suspected vaguely that as soon as the arm was moved he'd faint. With each breath he tried to keep his head above the pain, but he wondered if he was losing because he continued to see dark and bright stars, on and off.

What were they doing to the Spencers? Marte had stepped in front of Shawn, so Lassiter had only been able to catch Henry's partial expression as he was forced outside. Henry had been white with panic. Lassiter wished he could stay and play the good detective and save the day . . . but he was the one who needed saving.

* * *

Shawn's heart was racing but he knew going after Donia again wasn't going to make her cough up where her father had taken Lassiter. He glared at her and she glared back amusedly.

No one was talking, not Donia, Marte or Cybil. Vick, Juliet and Samuelson were trying to reason with them; did they really want to be accessories to the murder of a cop? The sentence would be just as harsh as if they were the ones doing the killing. But they weren't interested in saving Lassiter. Marte looked as bored as Donia, and Cybil had an angry vindicated look about his face, as if he thought Lassiter was getting what he deserved.

Still looking at Donia as if the answer may become clear, Shawn started. He thought of the way Donia had coughed after his hands had been pulled from her throat. The back of his neck prickled; maybe she _was_ telling him what she knew. Maybe she didn't want her father to kill Lassiter. She had coughed like she was drowning. It was a long shot, he knew, but it was the only clue. He hoped every higher power that he was not wrong. Donia managed a vicious smile, tiny on her small face.

"I know where they are!" Shawn called out suddenly. He jumped up and down, adrenaline pumping.

"What?" Karen demanded. "Where?"

Shawn was running out the gray door, calling over his shoulder, "Come on! We don't have much time!"

"Shawn!" Juliet's and Henry's voices mixed together.

Shawn hit the pavement; the only solid pathway in a sea of yellow sand. He paused for a few moments, disoriented by the brightness. It seemed he'd been gone from the world for years instead of days. He tried to quickly determine how much ground Notte could have managed with Lassiter as his hostage. Was he still walking backwards or had he turned and forced Lassiter to walk forward? Lassiter was in bad shape; besides that, Notte was about two or three inches shorter and was holding the gun at an awkward angle. What if Lassiter stumbled and the gun went off? Shawn shivered, his whole body going cold even though it must have been at least 85 degrees outside.

"Where?" Vick demanded again, stopping so fast at his back she slammed into him. She, Juliet, Samuelson, Buzz McNab and Officer Hamilton were at his side; the others stayed behind to guard the prisoners. Vick told Henry firmly to stay put.

Shawn figured that Notte hadn't tried to drag Lassiter through the sand, so he started running up the path. His sore muscles protested at every step. He stumbled once, nearly kissing the pavement, but managed to stay upright. Up ahead he saw the path branch out into a sidewalk that stretched out in a T. One direction led towards a small row of businesses that from here looked like specks, the other, much closer, a pier. Shawn turned right and ran towards the pier, which was up a jog from this stretch of the T.

"Shawn, where are we going?" Juliet cried, keeping pace with him. Her hand was wrapped around her gun.

"He's taking Lassie to the end of the pier," Shawn explained. "That's where the water's the deepest." Shawn strained his eyes, but he couldn't see them yet.

"He's going to push Carlton in the water?" Juliet determined, her eyes wide. Shawn grunted a response and they kept running. "Chief, end of the pier," Juliet called back to Vick.

Vick instructed Buzz to call the officers she had sent out looking for the pair and tell them where to go. "Suspect is armed and considered highly unstable. Detective Lassiter held at gunpoint. All units to the pier," Buzz radioed, before catching up with Vick.

Shawn still didn't see them. The pit of his stomach felt like lead; what if he were wrong? What if Donia's subtle hint had been false, or what if he'd misinterpreted it? What if Notte had forced Lassiter into a car or shot him already? Shawn lost his footing and fell hard on his stomach, splinters digging into both hands. The wood sagged a bit under his weight. He grunted hard, wiping his chin with his arm; fresh blood there now under his stubble. He felt Juliet tug on his arm, then he managed to stand. They continued to run. They cleared a hill and the pier leveled out. The pier looked completely deserted at first; Shawn realized quickly it was because this pier was condemned; the boards were old and cracked. It was a unsafe place for large crowds; thus private, and quiet.

"There!" Juliet cried out. The forms were like mirages, shimmery with heat. Shawn gasped; even from this distance he could see how pale Lassiter's skin was, and could make out the gun still pressed under his chin. "Oh, my god!" Vick muttered, close behind them.

"All units, suspect is in sight," Buzz radioed to back up.

"Advance," Vick yelled into the radio, "but proceed with extreme caution. Run faster," she urged the pair in front of her, and they picked up their pace.

* * *

Lassiter was drenched with cold sweat. The only thing keeping him from total darkness was the intense pain rendering his so abused wrist useless, as well as the iron grip on his other, and the spikes of pain shooting up his forearm. He paid less and less attention to where his captor was taking him; all he saw anyway was sand, and brightness. He was struck with _deja vu_, and wondered if he was only just waking up from a nightmare with no face.

"That you do not remember the most important details," Notte began, yanking Lassiter's left arm hard to make him pay attention, "is what makes me most angry with you, Detective." Lassiter gave a muffled cry. Then he tried to speak. Notte pushed the barrel of the gun up higher, forcing Lassiter's jaws to clamp shut. "You do not speak. You listen," Notte growled. "Now I will tell you a story. And then when it is done, _sepolte vive._ You die."

Sweat ran off of Lassiter's skin like rain water. It was getting harder to breathe. When he looked out, he saw that steely gray-blue water had replaced the bright gold sand. How had Notte gotten him here? Dragged him? Had he managed to walk? What if he could get away from Notte? How far would he make it on his own two feet?

_"__Hai rovinato la buona reputazione della nostra famiglia. _I haveh been wearing the mask of this _night,_ but it not my true face. Do you know I haveh hidden in the shadow, _bruciare— _in grief and indignation?" He jammed the barrel against Lassiter's chin, making the detective groan. Notte chuckled darkly. "And the only thoughts to keep me alive all those years were planning your demise? Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself, _si_? You were _innocent_, a mere child at twenty-three," Notte began, still dragging Lassiter backwards. "Not yet a detective, only two or three years in to your career. And then you received work into your first big case, the one that would bring you immense recognition and start you on your path to Head Detective." Notte explained this calmly, as if reading it from a file regarding someone other than Lassiter.

Lassiter was at first confused, but his confusion was turning into icy fear. He was starting to remember. At the trial, he recalled— a dark appraising look from a man standing close to those on the Cavaliere side of the courtroom. The man had only been seeing him. He had been too young to understand it should have brought him pause, that he should have been scared. The man had been in his mid to late forties. The man had a curled white scar under his right eye.

Notte turned around and forced Lassiter to walk forward, slow, measured steps, so the kidnapped detective could see how close they were getting to the end of the pier; where there was broken and missing wood in the railing. The hole was jagged but large enough for a person to fall through, no handholds, no mercy. And below, a fifteen foot drop into the cold ocean. "You were assigned a case that involved not only scandal and drugs, but my only brother and our good name. _Respect_ for your peers and supervisors. For the _destruction_ you caused. You and your partner then the arresting officers. Your names in the paper." He paused, and then whispered right in Lassiter's ear, "I killed him quickly. A shot to the throat. A mercy kill."

Lassiter shuddered violently; his knees almost buckled. _Adam Marks was dead?_

"But I knew I needed to save up something special for you. _Belladormita._ Experimental, dangerous, mind altering, possible lasting effects. And Rohypnol." He related it as casually was if speaking of the weather. "A combination to control you— or possibly kill you instantly. To shame me, turns out you were a fighter after all." There it was— the dark appraising voice that went with the look from Lassiter's memory. For a moment, he twisted in Notte's grasp, stopped only by Notte's pressing the muzzle deeper into his skin.

"For your partner, it was all business. But for you, it was about making a name for yourself. _Showing off_." They were very close to the broken railing, though Notte was taking everything slowly. "And you know what happened to my only brother in prison, Detective?" Notte pulled the gun from Lassiter's chin and pressed it hard against his the side of his head so Lassiter could speak. "Tell me," Notte ordered.

"He— he— he—" Lassiter was so lightheaded, he was seeing bright yellow spots dancing before his eyes.

"Tell me!" Notte screamed in Lassiter's ear. Carlton winced hard, feeling the scream in his shoulders and neck.

"He— he was killed in prison. Knifed by another inmate."

Lassiter remembered the young girl's family testifying at Cavaliere's trail. The girl already dead and buried, and her brother— the inmate already convicted of murder (he confessed and didn't ask once for plea bargain)— already in prison. Her brother had snapped because of one of Cavaliere's drug laced hematite pendants had the most adverse effects resting against her skin; a toy she'd paid 25 cents for from a vending machine outside of a grocery store. _"A violent seizure . . . it left her a vegetable in a wheelchair . . . she wasn't ever going come out of it . . . her brother heartbroken . . . in his eyes, it was a mercy killing. . . ." _ Notte twisted Lassiter's left wrist so that the detective saw giant exploding stars on top of the yellow spots. Lassiter's agonized cry rang out over the water.

"Not just _killed_. His throat slashed, his face mutilated. Two weeks. _Two weeks_, Detective," Notte spat, "into his life sentence. _My brother is dead because of you_." They were five steps— maybe three feet— from the railing. Lassiter swayed, wanting to resist. "You believe you were entirely _innocent_. Only doing your duty," he spat.

"He— was— a— criminal," Lassiter got out, breathing hard. "He was— a killer. Responsible for— so— many— deaths— kids. Just kids. He didn't— give a damn about—" Lassiter struggled against Notte's iron grip, but it was impassible. Was he weak because of the pain, or was Notte just that much stronger? But the drug— Lassiter shivered violently. How could he fight this unknown? He caught a swaying glimpse of the drop down below— sheer; he had no idea how deep the water was here, if there were jagged rocks directly below or just a long drop off. He wanted to believe that he could manage to keep his head above water but what if he passed out the instant he hit? He would drown in matter of minutes, maybe seconds, taking all that water into his lungs.

"He drowned in his own blood, Detective," Notte snarled. "He died in _dolore straziante_, choked to death on the blood seeping out of his throat, his face. It was this— not the gruesome wounds, that killed. _Sepolte vive._ That is what the coroner said it was like. Like being buried alive. _Criminale_ or no, he was my blood and he did not deserve that death."

"But you— think— I do," Lassiter edged out, weakened. He was tired of trying to fight this man, his family, all that they had done. The only reason he hadn't given in completely was for want of safety for the Spencers. What was happening to them now that Notte had dragged him away? _I wanted to help you, _he thought, his images of them blurring.

"You deserve much worse," Notte snapped. Lassiter shuddered.

* * *

Approaching quickly, Shawn, Juliet, Vick, McNab, Samuelson, Hamilton and the other back up, four additional officers heard, Notte yell "Tell me," followed soon after by a scream of pain from Lassiter. _Oh, my god, _Vick thought wincing, _please let us get there in time. _She knew that if she couldn't rescue Lassiter, she would resign. _I'm sorry, Carlton. I'm going to get you out of this. I promise . . . or I'm done with police work. _

_Carlton, _Juliet thought with tears in her eyes. She felt a surge of relief to hear Lassiter's voice, no matter how straggled. But she was maddened, by all that she had seen, and by what was right in front of her now. _Is this worth the price?_ she thought, directing her thoughts towards Notte. She had to stop him, any way possible.

_Lassie, hang on,_ Shawn thought furiously. They were closing in; Shawn could see that Notte had moved Lassiter dangerously close to the railing . . . which looked broken. _Oh, god._ Notte had his back to them, clearly only focused on completing this one last task.

Notte had his mouth against Lassiter's ear again, the barrel of the gun still against Lassiter's head. "Do you know what my departed mother and father said over and over in our household after my brother's funeral? They say, 'If _only_ we haveh one more day. If _only_ we haveh asked for one more day, if only we had _another day_, so we could haveh said goodbye,'. What they ask for, and they tell me— too late. Do you understand, now, why you haveh to die?"

"I— didn't— kill— Cavaliere," Lassiter gasped.

"But you benefited from his death."

"No—"

"Met him in a hotel, beneath ground," Notte cut in. His breath was an inferno on Lassiter's suddenly chilled face.

The note, the one that had been on the back of the picture he'd been given of Spencer. Lassiter felt breathless, the meaning of it flooding back. Roman Cavaliere had been apprehended in a "hotel beneath ground", an abandoned hotel's basement where he'd set up his drug labs. Cavaliere usually moved his empire when he suspected the police had any dirt on him. But young Officer Lassiter and Detective Marks had been covert, steadily and unflinchingly collecting all the evidence needed to put Roman away forever. Cavaliere hadn't known they were onto him until the raid— that day he was arrested in his underground hotel, La Estrella Negra. It was a day of glory— as much as Cavaliere's sentencing had been. So tangled up with the past they both were, neither noted the fast approach of urgent footsteps.

"Freeze! Santa Barbara Police!" Carlton was just as shocked as Notte to hear O'Hara's voice.

"Drop your weapon and release your hostage! _Now!_" This was Chief Vick— the angriest Carlton had ever heard her in all the time he'd known her.

Notte spun around, easily shifting his captive without loosening his grip, his finger still poised on the trigger of the gun at Lassiter's temple. He moved the muzzle of the gun under Lassiter's chin without pulling the metal from his skin, once again pressing Carlton's jaw shut. He was just those few inches shorter that he could easily use Lassiter as a shield and not be hit if they opened fire. McNab had yanked Shawn, who was unarmed, backwards as Vick, Juliet, Samuelson, and half a dozen other officers approached with their weapons drawn.

They were all horrified by Lassiter's appearance, as well as the glock with its silencer held against his chin. His right wrist, despite its being pinned, seemed bent at an awkward angle. They tried not to let it show on their faces— except for Shawn, who did nothing to reign in the disgust and fury at what Notte had done. He had this right— also being Notte's victim. Every single one of them was astonished that Lassiter was still on his feet, that his eyes were mostly open and looking them over; he had fresh blood on his face which was soaked with so much perspiration it seemed he'd been locked in a sauna for days.

"We know everything! Release him!" Vick cried out, boring her eyes into Notte's, who was only partially visible behind Lassiter. Tense disbelief flashed across Lassiter's face. This— what he was seeing— it couldn't really be happening. Could it? _But, I thought—_ Lassiter forced himself to blink, steadying his lids so they would reopen just as quickly. Vick— O'Hara— McNab— Samuelson— more— He blinked again. They remained, an unyielding force of gun wielding fury. They had formed a tight circle around the pair, and were about six feet away, though they were all easing closer. Lassiter allowed himself to replay what Vick had just yelled— _"We know everything."_ Was that true? How?

"It's over, Notte," Samuelson growled. "Let Lassiter go and stand down."

"The _name_ is Cavaliere," Notte snarled. "And you think he is blameless of all this?" He scowled. "He had started to remember. He was not aupposed to remember— only the beginning— only the role he has played in this crime." He slammed his arm against Lassiter's broken wrist; Lassiter bit back a scream, his eyes watering. Notte edged Lassiter towards the railing to the chorus of police officers and Shawn yelling out with horror, "Stop!!" Notte was holding all the cards and he knew it— he could get Lassiter as close as he wanted to that gaping hole.

"I will kill your precious detective," Notte menaced suddenly. He spat the word _precious_, enraged further to see the stoic, furious faces of the SBPD's finest. They weren't about to budge; neither was he. He edged another half step. Lassiter's eyes had paled with fear, sunken in his lids. The sky was such a bright, piercing blue. "Stay back or I will do it now." He dug the muzzle harder into Lassiter's chin, causing his hostage to first glance skyward and then squeeze his eyes shut tight.

Juliet's breath was lodged in her throat. She felt the day's heat pressed against her suit jacket; the slight ocean breeze danced with the fabric but offered no relief. She heard the rasp of Carlton's ragged breath in moments of silence between the volley of police demands and Notte's unyielding logic. The things this monster had done— ghosts of thoughts made Juliet ferocious for his blood._ You can't really think you're going to kill Carlton right in front of me, that I'm not going to stop you,_ Juliet's eyes glared at Notte's. She tightened her hold on her weapon, hating that it seemed she was essentially aiming her gun at her partner, because his abductor was too cowardly to be fully visible.

Vick told them to fall back; they did without losing too much ground. She knew they had to be careful with their risks; Lassiter was in horrible shape and Notte was taking full advantage of making it worse.

Notte wasn't as easily intimidated as the others had been for surrendering. Of course it would be different— Lassiter was the one Notte wanted to punish. It would be very difficult to talk him out of it, if that could even occur. Notte's reasoning was irrational, overblown, his sense of logic shot. He'd had Lassiter once and had let him go, assuming what he'd done had ruined Lassiter enough for the rest of his careful plans to take shape. But Shawn had foiled yet another plan of Notte's— a private murder.

"None of this is his fault!" Shawn called from the back. Lassiter tried to speak, but Notte yanked his left wrist furiously, pulling Lassiter another few inches towards the railing. His mean eyes picked Shawn out, who had edged up a little.

In response to Shawn's words, Notte slammed Lassiter's left arm against his broken wrist. Lassiter's body twitched. "Your miserable detective used my brother— and our name— to carve out _his_ name in your society," Notte yelled towards the police. "We haveh watched him for some time— waiting for the height of his glory for his ultimate ruin." He pressed his lips against Lassiter's ear without out taking his eyes from the police, and whispered conspiratorially, "And I must think of my Donia— I must cure her of this delusion that she will make some kind of happy little life with you."

_"We have watched him for some time."_ Notte's words shot across Vick's mind like a bullet tearing into flesh. To actually hear it come from his lips . . . Furiously, she tightened her finger around the trigger, keeping it steady, though she knew that if she and this man were left alone in a room together, only one of them would be walking out that door alive. And she wouldn't even need a gun to do it. _Carlton, please hold on!_ she urged silently. He looked like he was dying in front of her.

"This is stupid!" Shawn yelled out. "He didn't do anything to you!"

Lassiter's breathing was heavy through his nose; the world around him spinning, swimming. He was struck again and again with the greasy summer heat that seemed to be originating inside his body, pinpointing every ache and twinge. His eyes slid to slits. He focused on the voices of his colleagues to keep him grounded, forcing his eyes back open. Even though Notte held him tightly with the gun against his face, he was terrified that Notte might just open fire— on O'Hara, Spencer, Vick, anyone who got in his way while trying to execute the final stage of his plan of revenge. He worried Spencer was basically painting a target on his chest with the working of his jaw, daring Notte to take a shot. If this happened— Lassiter might go free.

Lassiter felt a stab of icy coldness inside him. Not at that price; it wasn't worth it. He had executed a similar distraction— though at gunpoint by Notte, he'd willingly walked towards his kidnapper who he knew would focus on his suffering above everything and everyone else. He did this— even though he'd heard Henry's warning growling at him, mingled with each pained step. _Please, _he begged, _don't let Spencer be as stupid-brave as me._

"Goddamn you, Shawn Spencer," Notte shrieked. "You helped him retrieve his memories. You believed him where no other would. For that you must die." The gun shook for a few seconds, then Notte seemed to regain control.

Lassiter twisted even though he felt the smallest movement was going to cause his death. "Stop," Notte snapped, but Lassiter didn't listen. Lassiter had his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't tell anymore if the wetness on his face was sweat, tears, blood or pus from one of his injuries. _Can't . . . let . . . him . . . kill . . . must . . . what it takes . . . protect . . . Spencer,_ his thoughts came jerkily. _But how was he going to do that?_ Notte tightened his grip.

"He's not under your control anymore," Shawn yelled out. "You want to blame someone— then blame me!" Shawn took another step closer. "It makes as much sense as what you've done— he's innocent!"

"Stop saying that!" Notte snarled back, inching Lassiter towards the rail.

"It's true!" Shawn shot back. "The things you told me— you needed a scapegoat— because _you_ couldn't face the truth. What your brother did was too shameful."

"Shut up!" Notte screamed. The gun trembled under Lassiter's chin. Lassiter managed a hard look at Shawn that seemed to order him to back off._ Spencer, are you insane? Stop trying to draw his fire!_

Lassiter's glare took in Shawn's shape quickly— the red circular cuts around his wrists, the bruises on his face and neck, the lines in the corners of his mouth— surprised to find him here but relieved that Spencer was all right. This was not the scared little boy he'd last seen lashed to a chair. He'd kept his promise— Spencer was safe. And Henry must be too— otherwise, Shawn wouldn't be here. He let his eyelids droop; sensations were blurring.

"What are you doing?" Vick hissed at Shawn. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" The others caught Lassiter's look— they were flooded with tense relief; the old Lassiter was still in there— hanging on.

"If he focuses on me, then it's worth it," Shawn hissed back. "Save Lassie."

Notte, as if to taunt them further, twisted Lassiter's left wrist hard enough that there was a pop; Lassiter's knees shook. Everyone took angry steps towards the pair, their guns all trained on Notte. "Don't come closer," Notte hissed loudly. A blue-black bolt of electricity shot across Lassiter's eyes. His ribs throbbed with a deep black pulse. He could taste the salt of sweat in his mouth. The faces before him seemed discolored, unreal. Who would, actually, from his police life, come to his rescue? It was a wicked dream, dangling this promise before him. His lips slid into a frown at the injustice.

Then he heard Vick's voice— loud and recognizable that snapped of a demand and yet in the same breath manifested itself as a desperate plead— directed solely at him. He actually opened his eyes to find the faces clear— his very angry colleagues— O'Hara, and Vick, McNab, among them— just waiting out the seconds to take the right shot. The eyes that scanned his seemed to convey that they were going to save him. That they were _here_— and on his side. He heard a very small voice somewhere hiss, _Yeah, all it took was you getting abducted again._ He felt too muddled to shoo it off. In part, he felt like a shell, but the pain continued, jarring him to feel his bones, his skin.

"You do _not_ speak to him," Notte snarled at Karen, easing Lassiter backwards another half step. "He shoulda haveh already been dead to you." Everyone tensed. Samuelson leaned his torso forward, pressing his arms and gun a hair closer towards Notte. Out of the corner of his eye, Samuelson saw Juliet do the same. Vick stared at him, unflinching. _You just try me,_ her thoughts blasted at Notte. _I'll be the one who buries you._

"Spare me that shit," Vick snapped angrily at Notte, taking a single defiant step towards the pair. Lassiter forced his eyes to hold her face; the look in his eyes bore traces of mild surprise; was he really hearing her possessiveness towards him? Surreal, that's what it was. "You screwed with _my_ head detective's life— and you and your disturbed family— _you_ must have a death wish. You had best release him before you do something you will regret." Vick frowned hard on the word _regret_.

Notte was not cowed. He chilled them, Lassiter included, by barking some laughs. "What I regret," he spat, "was not—" Notte stopped, then jammed the muzzle harder under Carlton's chin. Carlton was forced to bit down on his swollen lip. Vick didn't move from her spot, keeping her gun steady. "I shoulda haveh killed him when he was but a child— green, but _true_, ah!— just as I shoulda haveh killed you, Mr. Spencer."

"You couldn't," Shawn called out. "You make Cybil do your dirty work. I'm right, aren't I?" he continued, even though one of officers nearby jerked him backwards by the arm. He shrugged out if, staying close to the front. "Why don't you shoot me right now to prove you can— after all, don't you hate me more than him? Don't you want to kill _me_ for what _I've_ done?" Shawn's voice was the only other sound besides the occasional gull and Lassiter's harsh breathing. He didn't care if his voice quivered a little; he knew he had to use his words to fight for Lassie's life— something Notte had denied him back in the warehouse by insisting he remain gagged. This is what Notte feared— Shawn's words— any words that would work to calm the frightened detective— words that would offer truth and soothe him that he wasn't a lunatic. Shawn's insides burned with anger, and he forged on. _No way was this creep going to win._ Notte seemed smug, but Shawn wondered if he had been shaken— perhaps internally— by the arrival of the SBPD. Shawn felt he was correct— Notte hadn't wanted an audience when he murdered Lassiter— it was, to this man with the scar, a private affair. But if he had to play to an audience, he was elegant with his menace, not only the threats and sneers, but causing Lassiter great physical agony while his colleagues were forced to watch helplessly. Shawn tried to highlight any weaknesses in the way Notte held Lassiter, or perhaps a flaw with the gun— but Notte was secured, sure. He was holding Lassiter in a death grip— it would be Notte's death the second he let Lassiter go. Shawn noticed for the first time that Lassiter's knees were slightly bent, the result of Notte's being two inches shorter.

"Let him go, end this now," O'Hara cried firmly. "You don't want this," she insisted. Her voice was as hard and sharp as stone; Lassiter held his breath for a few seconds. His junior partner had grown up in his eyes— this was a woman demanding— deserving— of full respect. Looking her over, he heard her words from the hospital— when it was just the two of them there— wash back over him. Her tears on his skin, her emotional and angry declarations, her kiss on his forehead— her belief in him.

"And Donia doesn't want this," Shawn cried out. "Your daughter told me where to find you!"

A black shadow passed across Notte's face. "Lies!" Notte spat. He slammed Lassiter's ribs again; Lassiter let out another muffled cry while there was a collective gasp from everyone. Lassiter's eyes were rolling back. He tried to stay in the present moment even though he thought it might be killing him.

"It's true," Shawn called out. "She doesn't want you to take his life!"

Notte actually laughed. "What she wants— she is stupid girl." Lassiter gulped, his skin tingling from his soles to his lips. His eyes strayed to Vick for a moment, then O'Hara. Both women's eyes seemed on fire. Lassiter could see Spencer too, taking tentative steps forward. _The idiot,_ Lassiter thought dryly. _He's unarmed. He'll get himself killed. _"My Donia— she's disillusioned. She loves her father's greatest enemy," Notte said snidely.

"You can't do this," Shawn pleaded. He saw everyone step forward, brandishing their guns. He caught Lassiter's eyes, and Shawn mouthed, "I'll keep my promises, Lassie."

"Mr. Spencer, still trying to save him with you words— as I say, you will not win," Notte yelled. "Was it worth the price?" Notte yelled, throwing the question at everyone, including Lassiter, who he shook for emphasis. Lassiter felt Notte easing the muzzle away from his chin.

"No more days to ask for too late," Notte sneered. _"Mettere fine a questo._" Lassiter struggled against Notte's hold, trying fiercely to break it, but Notte slammed his ribs hard enough to so that he saw blackness before him, streaked with red. _This was really how it was going to end. _

"Your days— and nights— are done," Notte hissed in his ear before pivoting to his right and releasing Lassiter with a hard shove— they had gotten too close to the railing. Lassiter skidded on the driftwood pier for one step and a half before his body hit dead air. Weightless for only a moment, his heart flew into his throat as his body plunged for the cold ocean. His feet hit hard and he was soaked immediately, the water more icy than bracing. Lassiter's head disappeared under the waves, his mouth open to inhale air but sucked in water. He choked. The gray-brown water was pulling him further under. The cold was a shock to his system; but he found he was so tired, overwhelming so. All he wanted was to close his eyes, to sleep the long sleep of forever.


	25. Chapter 24: By The Force Of Will

**Chapter Twenty Four: By The Force Of Will, My Lungs Are Filled**

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Disclaimer: I don't own any references to Power Bars.

Author's Note: Thanks again to all my reviewers! I know I say it every time, but your words mean so much to me! Thanks for your time and your feedback, and thanks again for reading! :D

My story is nearly at its end. Thanks for tuning in for the journey! This is the third to last chapter, with one more and an epilogue. This one's not as long as some of the previous ones, but I think it works all right. ;)

Italian Vocabulary: Sepolte vive = Buried alive; Si = Yes; _Sensitivo_ = Psychic; _Maledetto_ = Accursed;_ Va' al diavolo!_ = Go to hell!; _(Una) bella dormita_ = (A) goodnight's sleep.

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The second Lassiter was in the air, everyone screamed at once. They knew what was happening but there wasn't time to stop it; one of those rare slow motion moments when the terror is just out of reach. He disappeared still and fast as stone; the loud splash came much too soon. "Lassiter!" "Carlton!" "God, no!"

Though everyone on that pier would have agreed that justice would be served if Notte was not been spared, he was only spared because everyone on that pier cared only for their fallen, now drowning, brother. Otherwise, they would have aimed for the chest, the heart, the groin, the neck, in between the eyes. Turned towards them with his left side, he still clutched the Glock, but seemed to be uninterested in pointing at them. After all, he'd just gotten his wish. They gave him no further warning; directly following Lassiter's fall, they brought down Notte immediately. Two bullets to the left shoulder spun his body to face them, their shots glanced his forearms, just above the elbow, and a couple shots entered his upper thighs and at least one to his calf. On the ground, gurgling blood, his mouth crumpled into a weak smile and he laughed. _"Sepolte vive_," he muttered, closing his eyes.

The gunfire was as immediate as Lassiter's descent, then their ringing cries, Shawn's voice among them. Notte was down in seconds, and then Shawn was in motion. He didn't think. He ran to the railing and jumped, not even hearing Vick, Juliet, Samuelson and many other voices trying to stop him.

The airlessness of the fifteen foot drop seemed to last forever but then Shawn hit the cold water, his whole body jackknifing down at least eight feet. With the breath he'd sort of taken in on the way down, he swam lower. The salt water screamed into the deep cuts around his wrists, but he ignored the burning; he didn't have time for his own pain. The water was clear at this level, likely because of the bright sunlight hitting overhead. Water rushed into his ears, bubbles edged into his nose but he pushed them back, iridescent baubles in a murky water world. Shawn reached out around him, hoping Lassiter was somewhere close. Barely ten seconds had passed since Lassiter had been pushed and Shawn jumped, but Lassiter was in horrible shape. All he needed was to suck in just one too many breaths of water— _No_. Shawn forced the thought out of his mind, kicking deeper. His lungs burned. The deeper he went the darker it got; he was relying on only what he could touch. Salt water was supposed to have a buoyancy, but people drowned in the ocean all the time. _Please, help me find him_, Shawn begged. _I swore I was going to help him, no matter what._ _I can't let those psychos win. _Dark spots popped up in front of Shawn's eyes. He really needed to get air.

After Shawn jumped, Juliet ran to the railing. Below, the water showed foam and ripples from his splash, but Shawn didn't come up right away. Juliet feared she had lost two friends— not only in the same day but the same second. "They're not coming up!" Juliet yelled to the others. Samuelson called for paramedics and instructed the other officers to get down to the lower beach to wait for them, telling he them that's where he was headed. Buzz was already undoing his holster and belt and pulling off his shoes.

Shawn had no idea how much time had passed but all the air had gone from his lungs. He scooped himself just a little lower, throwing out his hands; they came up empty. He started for the surface. A slight undertow pulled him towards the undercarriage of the pier. Shawn broke the surface, buoying for a few seconds in the waves under the pier. He gulped a few breaths and ducked under again. Something was pulling him straight down; he tried not to panic that it was another undertow. About five feet down, his ears popped. His heart was beating very fast; _where the hell was Lassiter? _Holding onto his air, he dove deeper, flailing his arms around the darker it got. He reached and reached, still nothing. Shawn scissor kicked; his eyes were on fire from the salt. He realized he must have drifted out from the pier, because it was lighter here. He scooped and kicked himself lower, deeper, ignoring a creeping unease that this ocean was just too big; it had swallowed its prey and none of his best efforts could change that. Shawn steeled his resolve and pushed deeper with dolphin kicks, wondering if some blurry shapes were more than what they seemed.

Shawn determined the shapes may be shadows, and they were a short distance from him; he headed for them, his arms outstretched. The current was pressing down on him, as well as partially pulling him towards the surface. It was like to trying to stay upright in a wind tunnel. He closed his eyes for focus, and dove deeper with a couple of frog kicks. His hands were still coming up empty. Shawn's oxygen was running out again. He could feel the near useless air bunched in his cheeks, but he continued to hold onto it, a dull throb edging up the base of his neck. Shawn stretched his hands further and kicked hard. His fingertips hit something solid.

Adrenaline surged; he felt for what it was— it swayed in the water and the under the motion of his hands. Loose, it was cloth. Attached to the cloth was something even more solid. Shawn pulled on the cloth; the more solid thing drifted towards him. Shawn opened his eyes; the image in front of him cut up with the light bouncing off the waves overhead. Shawn thought he could cry. The cloth was Lassiter's jacket; the solid form was a blurry Lassiter, limp, his head bent forward, mouth open. Shawn gathered Lassiter around the waist and propelled them both to the surface. He fought hard with a few long kicks; some unseen pressure worked to keep them below. Shawn released his dead air with a yell, ignoring the rush of bubbles that made the light around them less clear. He tightened his hold around Lassiter's waist, a quick thought striking him that the detective was too thin; had an odd breakableness about him— but no, he was as solid and human as ever. And Shawn was going to be damned if he couldn't make Lassie see that.

When they broke, Shawn coughed and coughed. His eyes were burning and he blinked furiously to keep them open. The seasonable ocean wind was slapping at his face. "Lassie? Lassie?" Shawn rasped. Shawn noticed Lassiter's eyes were closed; his torso tilted facedown. Shawn flipped Lassiter onto his back and shook him, with no response. In the choppy water, Shawn pulled Lassiter in close and braced the detective's upper back with his scrunched up knees. He tilted Carlton's head back so that the detective's closed eyes were under the water. Shawn listened for breathing; none. Blood rushed in his ears. Shawn opened Lassiter's mouth and did finger sweep, surprised when he pulled out a piece of something slimy, dark green, limp. Seaweed. He listened for breath, still none, and pinching Lassiter's nose shut, gave the detective two quick breaths. He used the heel of his hand to administer the makeshift CPR, then his fist, for more forcible compressions.

The seconds that ticked by were agonizing. Shawn felt the weight of his own fatigue pressing on him, but he shoved it back; there wasn't any time for that. Shawn tilted Lassiter's head back again, pinched Lassiter's nose shut and gave him one long breath, paused before the second, then gave it. He was about to start another set of compressions when he thought he felt Lassiter shift in the water.

The tease of air rushed down Lassiter's throat. His lungs screamed; his head pounded and he knew he needed to breathe. Water and salt were tickling the back of his throat; the pit of his stomach shifted uncomfortably with burn. Lassiter's eyes shot open, blinking furiously under the water. A pool of heavy foul water burst into his mouth; for a half second, he thought he was going to die. Lassiter coughed violently; Shawn was stunned but held onto him, getting him upright in the water and helping him bend forward. Lassiter threw up a lot of water; then afterwards coughed for a long time. When he finally caught a breath that wasn't full of water, he eyes turned to Shawn. "Spencer," he got out gravelly.

"Oh, my god," Shawn said in a high pitched squeak. "Are you okay?" Lassiter coughed again but nodded. He tried to say something but Shawn stopped him. "Don't try to speak. Just keep breathing." His own voice was reedy, but he heard every beat of relief, though he had to remind himself several times that Lassiter was alive.

Shawn's legs were getting tired. He was treading full speed to keep his own head and Lassiter's above water. He had one arm wrapped tightly around Lassiter's waist, the other was around the detective's right arm, looped around his armpit and shoulder. He had no idea if he was helping brace the break; he didn't want to risk bumping the arm. He tossed his head around; they were under the pier again, having drifted deep into its grey shadows. He couldn't see anyone else in the water. "Help! Help!" he yelled. The waves roared; it was louder here, as far as they were under the pier. "Jules! Chief! Anyone!!!"

Shawn stopped to listen before yelling again. The sound of ocean crush was almost deafening for a few seconds. Then he heard Juliet's faint voice; she was calling for them from up above on the pier.

"Shawn! Lassiter!" a stronger, closer voice called. "Shawn!!" Shawn looked around for Buzz McNab but couldn't see him. "Lassiter!!" A shiver went through Shawn's bones, and he felt the icy swath of his dirty clothing plastered against his skin.

"Here! We're here! Here!!" Shawn yelled. Carlton winced, the sound just one decibel too loud. A wave bounced and splashed over their heads. Shawn kicked harder to keep them upright; Lassiter was almost dead weight in his grasp. They coughed loudly back at the surface. Shawn tried to pay attention to Lassiter's breathing while his eyes streamed. "Help! We're here!" Shawn's voice cracked. Lassiter realized suddenly that Shawn was dehydrated; he had been tied up and gagged for days. He felt a dull burn of anger; had they fed him? Given him any water? He shivered unwillingly; thinking of them made him feel sick. He pushed their ugly faces and deeds from his mind, focusing on Spencer's ragged breathing.

"Catch your breath," Lassiter told him softly. Shawn tried to. Lassiter felt himself wedged in Shawn's grasp; he started to tread, even though every cycle burned his muscles. His bruised ribs ached with fiery pain. Shawn tightened his grip when he felt Lassiter's movement and yelled out again. He sounded like he had swallowed a lot of water himself.

"Shawn!! Carlton!!" Shawn turned his head in the gleaming water. It was quite cold despite the hot sun drifting over it; it was sapping his strength. But he was determined not to let go of Lassiter. "Shawn!! Carlton!!"

"It's Vick," Lassiter mumbled. Her voice was closer, then the pair heard Buzz's voice again, calling for them. Both his arms burned, in spite of the cold water. The pain of the broken wrist was suddenly biting; he barely covered it with a moan. Dark spots danced before his eyes.

Shawn felt Lassiter start to slump. "Lassie, hold on!" he urged to the detective, too afraid to figure out what he would do if Lassiter passed out now. "We're here!" Shawn yelled. "Under the pier!!!"

Buzz appeared through waves, swimming towards them. "Chief!!" Buzz yelled loud enough to make their eardrums ring. "They're both here! Under the pier!!" She called back. Buzz reached them about the same time Vick came into sight, swimming towards them. Shawn realized they had drifted quite a distance under the pier. It was a strange sight, to see Buzz and Vick slick wet; they must have jumped off the pier when neither Carlton nor Shawn resurfaced.

"Are you both all right?" Buzz asked. He got up close to them and slid his arm down Lassiter's back. "Lean against me, sir," he told Lassiter. The dark spots had gone, but his eyelids drooped heavily.

"Cold," Lassiter murmured. He was too tired to shiver.

"No, I've got him," Shawn said, his teeth chattering.

"It's all right," Buzz told Shawn. When Shawn didn't let go, Buzz said, "The Chief is on her way, Shawn. She'll be able to help you stay afloat. Let me take him, okay?"

Shawn looked at Lassiter, whose lips were a bruised shade of purple. He reasoned to himself that Buzz was more qualified because he wasn't exhausted like they were. He helped Buzz take Lassiter from him, getting Lassiter half into a floating position. Buzz's left arm curled under Lassiter's shoulder blades, and the officer used his shoulder to keep Lassiter's head above the water. "Be careful, his right wrist is broken." Shawn helped Buzz ease Lassiter's broken wrist across his chest; Lassiter winced the entire time, seeming to grow whiter.

When Lassiter was secured, Shawn let go, and let himself sink for a few seconds. He felt light except for an invisible weight hanging around his ankles. He'd only been under two or three seconds when a huge hand squeezed his armpit and pulled upward. He broke the surface and found Lassiter and Buzz staring back, stunned.

"Shawn, are you okay?" Buzz asked with concern.

Shawn was alarmed that he was suddenly feeling faint. He resisted the urge to grab Buzz's arm. He bobbed his head for a yes, though his consciousness was becoming fuzzy. The adrenaline must be wearing off.

"He's— dehydrated," Lassiter muttered, hoping Buzz could hear him. "Don't— let— him—" Carlton coughed and more water came up. He turned his head to the side, hardly knowing how to pinpoint where the pain was coming from. He felt McNab tighten his grasp on his shoulders.

Buzz said, "Sir, save your strength. We need you back." Had he not been so tired, he may have furrowed his brow. _Did McNab really just say—?_ Carlton mused. Lassiter wondered for a few moments if he should be chagrined; this young officer he often regarded as bright eyed but a little daft was keeping him afloat, but he was oddly grateful to have his head above water, any way necessary. He found the word on his tongue and pushed it out into the air, not certain if it would even take shape. "You'd do the same, Detective," Buzz replied just as softly.

"Will you be okay treading water for a few more minutes?" Buzz asked Shawn in a louder voice. He was worried how pale Shawn's skin looked. He was trying to recall if it had been this color earlier. Regardless, Buzz took Lassiter's advice and kept a tight grip on Shawn. "The Chief is on her way."

"Yeah. Be okay." Shawn was starting to feel warm; or was it numb? He let himself slump a little in Buzz's grasp. It was kind of funny, he thought, because if he'd had to hold onto Lassiter for another hour or two, he knew he would have been fine, but now, strangely, light was dancing in front of his eyes.

"Chief!" Buzz called out as Vick reached them. Shawn's eyes were dipping below the surface. She looped her arms under his armpits and held him up, tight against her chest. Shawn took in shallow breaths that seemed like panting.

"Oh, my god, you're both breathing and intact," Vick observed, looking them over and over. "You gave me the worst scare of my life! I thought I'd lost both of you. Never again," she told them firmly. Lassiter watched her; was her face really pinched with _that_ much worry and fear— for him and Spencer— or was it just all his drifting pain returning with the waves splashing over them?

"Stop treading," she ordered Shawn, who was still managing the action weakly. "I need you to float on your back. The lifeguards and paramedics are on their way." She held her position on his arms and helped Shawn stretch out flat. It was easier than treading, Shawn thought, but he really wanted to get out of the ocean now. Lassiter was right, it was cold.

"It's easier to have them come to us," Vick explained when Shawn asked why they were waiting here. "You've both been through a great deal and aren't in any condition to swim." The little yellow circles in front of his eyes began to dissipate, and he found himself staring up at the underside of the pier.

"Detective Lassiter says Shawn is dehydrated," Buzz told her. This was the second time Lassiter had heard the word 'detective' before his name; why wasn't Chief Vick correcting McNab?

"I am not," Shawn mumbled in a dry voice that made everyone roll their eyes. Leave it to Shawn to find humor in the scariest situations.

She looked towards Carlton, who had his eyes open but was looking dazed at best. Every single bruise, scrape and gash had been exposed, and was dripping wet. "Carlton, can you hear me?" she said softly.

He looked at her, and tilted his head, which she assumed was the best nod she was going to get at this moment. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I apologize it took me so long to believe in your innocence." He looked like he might cry, but because his skin was soaked and his eyes already wet, it was hard to tell. He too studied the pier. She wanted to tell him she was furious that that bastard had hurt him, but she could offer all her apologies when they were on dry land.

"I figured you'd come around," Shawn mumbled to Vick, his voice giving out a little. "See things my way." She wondered if she imagined the tiniest of smiles on Lassiter's face. Shawn coughed. He could feel the salt in all of his cuts, and the slap of the waves against his bruised skin. Though he did his best to swallow it, because one look at Lassiter— badly abused, nearly drowned— humbled him. And besides, Shawn could move all of his limbs again; it was still amazing to him. The four of them floated there, silent for a few more moments before sirens cut into them. Red and blue lights, orange lights, all spinning around under the pier. The sounds of boat engines and then numerous people, some in bathing suits only and others wearing rescue EMT gear swarmed around them. Everyone was talking at once. Asking for names, ages, injuries sustained, time spent in the water, asking for so much information. Vick was telling them that both Lassiter and Shawn were kidnap victims who had gotten away, Lassiter's abductor had pushed him off the pier and Shawn jumped in afterwards. Stretchers appeared and were lowered into the water.

"He's hurt; be careful," Buzz was telling the lifeguards/ paramedics as he helped them get Lassiter strapped onto the stretcher. "Broken right wrist, injured left wrist, bruised ribs, cuts, abrasions, he was beaten up pretty badly . . . . Not sure if there's a head injury . . . he's dazed . . . . He was pushed off the pier. Yes, fifteen feet."

"I gave— CPR," Shawn hiccuped. He was trying to blink the sun out of his eyes.

"He's dehydrated," Vick was telling the people helping get Shawn. "He's nearly fainted. Yes, he was kidnapped. Yes, that's why his wrists are . . . He jumped off the pier to rescue our head detective, whose kidnapper had be pushed him . . ." Her eyes were shining over Shawn's suddenly. "You gave Carlton CPR?" she asked him urgently.

"He was under . . . I found him, not breathing." Shawn said he wasn't certain how long Lassiter was underwater before he got to him. Shawn outlined the process for her, telling that her that he'd pulled out a piece of seaweed, the way he'd done the compressions, and the few breaths he'd managed before Lassiter regained consciousness. "He— puked up all this water, and coughed a lot. But he's breathing now. Right, he's still breathing?" The yellow circles were back, and Shawn, being loaded onto one of the boats, began to shiver violently. Heavy cotton blankets covered him.

"Yes, yes, he's still breathing. You did good, son," a warm but unfamiliar voice assured him.

"Wait," Shawn mumbled, grabbing at someone's arm. "Lassie's been drugged— this whole time. It's called . . . _Belladormita_." Shawn's eyes slid closed.

_"__Belladormita_?" Buzz repeated, glancing at Shawn with question, then shooting a look towards Vick to get her attention. He waved her close to the edge of her boat, and leaned over to tell her what Shawn said.

"Still drugged?" Vick repeated, turning around to see paramedics or lifeguards talking to Lassiter. She nodded at Buzz, and then went back to Carlton.

Her voice cut through theirs. "Don't ask him to speak right now." She had pressed herself against his stretcher; Lassiter realized suddenly that he was out of the water, staring at that denim blue sky overhead. Wind was on his face, but his body felt shielded; he moved his eyes to see Vick, soaked from head to toe, kneeling near his head. She was clutching a dark grey blanket distractedly about her shoulders. When she turned back to him, he felt her cool hand on his cheek. "Hold on, Carlton," she was saying overhead. Her face was fading into an inky blackness that was washing over them. "Hold on!" An EMT bent over him with a respiratory mask.

"He's very lucky," the EMT was telling Vick. She looked back, tears in her eyes.

"They were kidnapped," Buzz was repeating to someone. "They were both involved in hostage standoffs." Shawn's face felt battered by both wind and sun. It hurt to close his eyes; there was a rushing in his head like he'd gotten some of the ocean in it. There was something over his face, plastic, clear, pushing air into his mouth.

_It's— real,_ Lassiter thought vaguely, opening his eyes briefly to the bright blue sky. He caught Vick's face leaning close to his, words on her lips; she looked miserable, as if she'd been crying. He couldn't tell for sure. _I'm not just dreaming this. It's real. _Amid sensations of fatigue and pain, Carlton experienced a lightness; the deep ache inside his chest now hurt so much less. He suspected, strangely, in time, he wouldn't feel it at all.

* * *

Henry ran to the pier as soon as he heard the sirens in the distance, though he'd been itching to leave as soon as he'd heard, via police radio, about where Notte had taken Lassiter. Up ahead, he tried to make out the figures but he couldn't see his son, or Lassiter. Only two people were still on the pier: Juliet was leaning over the wooden railing; Notte, up against it, in handcuffs, a red mass of bleeding. Despite his wounds, he had an ugly sneer on his face, and said something to Juliet.

"Shut your mouth!" Juliet spat in his direction. Her hair was a mess in the sea wind.

Henry froze for a moment, hearing her angry voice arcing over the distance, then he continued his hurried pace towards her. "Juliet!" he cried out, forgetting formalities.

She whirled from the railing but waited for him to come to her.

"Where's Shawn?" Henry asked. Up close, her saw that her expression was wild; it matched the way some of the blond strands of hair waved with the current.

"That bastard pushed Carlton into the water—" Henry joined her at railing, peering down into the steely blue-gray ocean and its sheer drop. "And Shawn jumped in before we could stop him."

"Well?" Henry demanded as he watched her scan the surface for signs of life.

She threw up her hands. "They haven't come up." Henry didn't realize how far he had started leaning towards the broken boards until he felt a rather strong grip of her hand on his shoulder. She shook her head tightly, as if warning him not to try whatever crazy plan maybe skitting across his mind at the moment. "McNab and the Chief already went in— they'll find them."

They had talked, but quickly; Vick, as her superior, ruled her out. "I'll get them," Karen had promised, then had taken in a deep breath and plunged her small frame straight down into the water.

_God, Shawn,_ Henry thought with a knot in the center of his chest. _What have you gotten yourself into now?_ There must be a good reason why Shawn hadn't come up— at least, why Juliet hadn't seen him surface. He was a good swimmer— and he also hadn't been hurt too badly. Though Henry knew he was likely weak— who knew if those bastards had fed him or keep him hydrated? Henry knew Shawn could hold his own; he gulped with hope Shawn could, even now.

But Lassiter— god. Henry squeezed his eyes shut, still hearing that sickening crunch of bone separating from bone, and then Lassiter's horrible scream. He scowled at Notte. "Was Lassiter shot?" he asked, looking over Notte's bullet wounds.

"No," Juliet said, not taking her eyes off the water. "Samuelson and the others are down on the beach— waiting for lifeguards and emergency personnel," she added, even though Henry hadn't asked.

Henry noticed then how badly she was shaking. "Shawn wasn't hurt? He just jumped in?" She nodded, still not looking towards him. She hadn't said a word about Lassiter's condition; Henry suspected that it had progressively worsened since Notte had dragged Carlton out of sight. "Shawn'll find him," he heard himself reassuring her. "They'll both be all right." _Both of them damn well better be all right,_ Henry thought angrily. _'Cause if they're not, _I'm_ gonna kill them._ He shook his head slowly, trying to get his worry to abate.

Henry glanced at Notte again, who, despite his wounds, was eyeing them with amusement. "You son of a bitch. If you go near my son again, I'll—"

"What?" Notte rasped. "Kill me?" He laughed dryly. "I can think of fates— worse than death."

"I'd love to watch you fry," Henry snarled. There weren't any paramedics here yet; it seemed all too possible Notte may just bleed out before they arrived. If they were even called. "You're a coward."

"May— be," Notte mumbled with a dark grin, "but still I caused great ruin to Mr. Lassiter. And now, death. Though he deserves— to die in _more_ agony— suffering to the last— this will— haveh to do." He laughed but it turned into a coughing fit. Henry took a couple of steps towards Notte, his fist bunching tightly at his side. Juliet jumped in surprise when she heard the impact of the punch, and pulled herself away from keeping watch to intervene. Though she went slowly, watching Henry smash Notte's face with two more hits before she put her hand on his arm and wordlessly guided him away from the criminal. It was nearly astounding for her to see how protective Henry seemed of not only Shawn, but Carlton as well. Had Henry stepped into this role after Shawn went missing?

"Mr. Spencer, I need to ask you something," she said quietly, her eyes very serious. "Did you help Carlton escape from the hospital?"

Henry sighed, trying to control the urge to go back over to Notte and beat the man senseless. _Though,_ Henry thought with a frown, _the bastard deserves much worse._ He saw Notte spit some blood next to him, and then turned his gaze back to Juliet. "If you want an official story— I took him out of there. Against his will. Go ahead, arrest me."

"Mr. Spencer," Juliet sighed tiredly, crossing her arms. A frown creased a long line across her forehead. "To find him gone— I was scared to death. He'd just been attacked— beaten— I thought he was going to die—" She put her hand over her mouth, as if remembering where she was and what was going on.

"I'm sorry," Henry apologized. "I got a ransom call for Shawn—" When her eyes widened, he shook his head to halt her speech. "Look, Lassiter was in deep trouble—scared out of his mind— that creep over there really messed with his head. And you guys—" Henry sighed. "Look, he told me that either we went together to get Shawn back, or he said he'd go alone— and I wasn't about to let him out of my sight. Bang up job I did."

Notte spat again. "He is not aupposed to haveh so many friends." Juliet and Henry shot Notte dark looks. "He is alone, _si_? All he cares for is his work."

"You're done threatening him," Henry snapped at Notte. "On top of what I witnessed today, I was there when you showed up to badger him in the hospital and slice his face. I heard every word."

Notte looked, for the first time since the police approached, slightly shocked.

"What are you talking about?" Juliet asked. Henry explained. "That picture of Shawn?" Juliet said, her hand flying to her mouth. "That was from _him_— directly?"

"Yeah. It was hard to listen to— but I also knew they were talking about Shawn—" Henry could hear some guilt in his voice.

Juliet's cell rang. She yanked it out of her pocket and pressed it to her ear. "O'Hara."

"We got them," Samuelson told her.

"What? Are they all right?"

Henry tensed, watching Juliet's face.

"Yeah. They're both on the boats— kind of drifting in and out of consciousness, but they're both alive. The paramedics are taking good care of them."

"Thank god. Do you know what happened?"

Samuelson hesitated. "Maybe you should ask the Chief—"

"Please, Adam," Juliet pleaded.

Samuelson sighed. "I don't know all the details, but I know that Spencer found Lassiter under the water, unconscious."

Juliet gasped sharply.

"It's all right— he managed some kind of makeshift CPR— Juliet, Lassiter is fine. He's breathing— he's going to be okay. I have to go now— see you at the hospital?"

"Yeah, thanks." Juliet hung up the phone, shaking with relief. "Shawn's safe," she told Henry. "And he saved Carlton's life— Samuelson said he nearly drowned."

Behind them, Notte let out a low keening cry before spewing out a long string of Italian, ending with, "_Sensitivo_ _maledetto_,_ va' al diavolo!_"

"That's right, bud," Henry told him with crossed arms. "You're going to jail."

"Must be a family thing," Juliet added darkly, sneering at Notte, whose mouth dropped open with shock.

* * *

The hours stretched on; both too long and too short. Late afternoon faded into early evening, then later. Mostly, they all waited to catch glimpses.

Juliet was struck again with how difficult it was to wait; unlike the last time, which she recalled with a shudder (_that_ memory, she assumed, was always going to give her that reaction), she had at least been at Lassiter's unconscious side up until his gurney was wheeled away from her. Now, she was just as anxious; she hadn't seen him since Notte had tried to kill him. Samuelson tried to ease her mind, filling in details from what he'd seen while on the beach, but Juliet knew she had to see for herself. Karen had argued quite forcibly with some nurses or doctors that she not be separated from him, but in the end they had promised their best care, and had taken him.

_But, what if he wakes up and doesn't know—_ Vick thought, taking a step towards the group, before she was stopped by a grip on her shoulder.

"Sorry, Chief," Juliet muttered. "How is he?"

"What about Shawn?" Buzz asked, startling Juliet for a moment. That's right, Shawn was here too. She hadn't worried so much, but it hit her all over again that he'd just been rescued from his abductors. She wanted to see him, but not until . . .

Karen told them all she knew about both of them; her main focus on Lassiter. She didn't know if Shawn was ready for visitors yet.

Vick had sent all the rest of her officers back to the station to process the Notte-Cavaliere family and begin the paperwork. When it came time to take everyone's statements, that process was going to be a killer, but for now, there were more important matters. The only ones at the hospital were herself, O'Hara, Samuelson, and McNab. Both Vick and McNab had refused to change. After a few hours, Samuelson left to start his own paperwork— and Juliet's, he'd told her— being assured his temporary partner would be all right. "Detective Lassiter doesn't know me very well, anyway— it would be more of a comfort for him to see people he knows." Adam smiled at her, nodded at McNab, and the Chief, and then left. "See you around, O'Hara."

"See you," Juliet mumbled distractedly.

* * *

"Excuse me," a doctor, coming up to the three of them, asked. After an unknown stretch on their feet, they had finally given in and sank into chairs. They had been discussing trite things; paperwork, tomorrow, relief, worry. They stopped talking, expectant for news. "Chief Vick?" the doctor continued.

"Yes?" Karen said, standing up and stepping forward.

The doctor cleared his throat. "I was told to refer to you— next of kin?"

Karen glanced quickly at her colleagues; they were a family of sorts. She nodded tightly.

"I just need you to come with me— there are some private matters I need to discuss."

Behind her, she heard Juliet's low mumble. For a moment, she considered having the doctor tell them all what might be going on, but then she thought better of it. "I'll fill you in," Vick tossed over her shoulder. She followed the doctor down the hall before either of them could protest.

"Before we start medication, I wanted to have a talk with you about this aforementioned drug," the doctor said.

Karen's insides froze. She was still walking and trying to listen, but there was a sudden horrible buzzing in her ears. ". . . possible complications," the doctor was saying. Her suit still damp; she shivered as it clung tightly to her skin. "Can I see him?" Vick cut in, because she knew she wouldn't be able to hear any more until then.

The doctor relented, and took her to Lassiter's room. "I'll be just outside."

"You haven't told him yet, have you?" Vick asked, her heart fluttering erratically. _God, please, no. _He'd been through so much; he'd nearly died. _Oh, god._ She had to put her hand against her mouth. It hadn't really hit her till this moment. She twisted the door handle sharply.

"No, Chief Vick," the doctor said. "Not yet." He sighed. "Right now, we are considering mild sedation. But please, go see him and then we can talk." She nodded distractedly, pushing the door open.

Karen was surprised to find his eyes open; she was only a few steps from the door but she could see how tight the pain had stretched his features; his eyes wet. They had set his right wrist; it was wrapped in a cast up to his elbow; the left wrist in a brace. The cuts and uglier bruises had been bandaged up; she suspected his bruised ribs had been wrapped and the cuts on his back redressed.

"Carlton," she breathed, stopping dead. He was just as pale as he had been on the pier; in the ocean. But he was alive, and in a place where she could keep an eye on him. Now, she hoped, there would be no more reasons for him to try to run.

Lassiter turned from his intent gazing at the ceiling. He had found one spot up there where he could completely lose himself— for seconds at a time. He couldn't tell her how much it hurt— both the physical pain of his injuries, and the emotional pain of betrayal, terror, then, strangely, relief. He noticed she was still in the wet clothes from earlier. Instead, he asked, "You know everything?" His voice was still gravelly and rough from swallowing so much ocean, then having it all come back up. "You know I'm—"

"Innocent," Karen said. "Yes. I'm so sorry." Her apology sounded flat and hollow to her own ears. She sighed softly. "We got all of them— they're in custody." She wanted to add that they could no longer hurt him, but it wasn't entirely true. She had come into this game so late, she wasn't in complete understanding of everything. She suddenly wondered if she should ask Shawn Spencer about this drug instead— and spare her detective one more pain.

"You fought for me," Lassiter said slowly, the aching obvious, his blue eyes holding hers. "You were in the water." He could no longer keep his eyes open; hiding the pain from her was taking its toll. Just as well, because she knew it would upset him to see her cry.

"Spencers . . . safe?" Lassiter asked, his eyes closed tight.

Vick straightened, surprised. "Y— yes. Shawn is here, having his injuries tended, and Henry—" She hesitated; it had been a while since she'd seen him. But then, he'd been standing, only bleeding a little. "Henry's not hurt. I'd imagine he's taking care of Shawn."

She waited for him to acknowledge this; eventually he nodded. He was clenching his teeth very hard; hard enough, she suspected, to hurt his jaw. She hated to be a liar; "Medicine not kicking in yet?" she asked softly.

He didn't respond. She felt, in herself, the physical ache of his pain. Later, she reasoned, it had only been manifested guilt. "I'm going to find out from your doctor, okay?" she told him gently.

She was to the door before he got the question out. "Is something wrong, with me?"

Karen wished she could have kept herself from glancing back; he had seen enough of those looks in her eyes already; one more thing she needed to withhold from him. Just for now. "I'll— I'll fix it," she blurted out, chagrined at those words. She was promising things she may not be able to give.

* * *

"You can't just do nothing!" Vick pleaded, trying to appeal to one of the many in the circle of doctors and nurses. Her face was red; they'd been talking and arguing for nearly a half an hour. She couldn't wrap her head around what they were telling her. "Give him something! I can't bear to see him in any more pain!"

"Karen?"

Vick whirled at the familiar voice. Henry Spencer was paused at the end of the hallway. He was on his way to see Shawn's doctor; his son had finally been whisked away from him and he'd been forced to wait. "What's wrong?" he continued, more than surprised to hear the sad emotion in her voice. She bit her lip, then waved him forward. He might want to hear this too.

* * *

"He won't need surgery— it was a nasty break, but clean. His right arm has been set in a cast. The left wrist is sprained, and has been braced."

"What about Shawn?"

"Your son is moderately dehydrated and malnourished; we'll keep him overnight for observation. He has an IV line for fluids, and one for a mild painkiller. When he first came in, he was treated for mild hypothermia, but we discovered it wasn't serious. Taking guided walks will help his circulation; we'll try that in a few more hours. He should be discharged in a day or two. His injuries are minor— and should heal relatively soon, as long as he rests." The doctor eyed Henry meaningfully.

Henry nodded, but shrugged. "I'll do my best to make that happen." When the doctor raised an eyebrow, Henry explained that Shawn was practically never a body at rest. As the doctor walked away, Henry thought how awful it must have been for Shawn to be bound to a stationary object for four days, gagged most of the time, not given water or nutrients; he hated it. A white hot burn of anger filled his chest. Henry knew Shawn had taken dangerous chances, just as he had before— always, really— because Henry had taught Shawn right from wrong, even if he insisted on this psychic thing Henry disapproved of. Shawn believed in what he did; Henry hoped he wasn't sorry he'd made the decision to help a cop in trouble. Henry wasn't, not for a second, regretful of the choices he'd made regarding Lassiter— cops are supposed to take care of their own; even though Shawn was not a cop, and Henry was retired.

Henry went to Shawn's door and knocked tentatively before going in. He wasn't sure why he was suddenly feeling anxious about seeing his son; the danger had passed. Pausing in the doorway, a surge of dark feelings passed through Henry's chest: the unbridled terror he'd kept shackled up during this whole ordeal that he was really going lose Shawn for good. He shook with emotion, pressing his fingers to his face to hide the tears he couldn't stop.

Shawn, awake, had heard his father's knock and watched the door open halfway. He could only see a part of Henry hanging back in the doorway; Shawn wasn't sure what he was waiting for. _God, I hope he doesn't start yelling at me right here, now,_ Shawn thought, rolling his eyes and then wincing because the small action made his head hurt. He knew he hadn't hit his head, but he remembered Marte smacking his nose until it bled; luckily, it hadn't been broken. In fact, he'd gotten off pretty easily compared to Lassiter; well, he speculated. The doctor told him the reason his head hurt so badly was due to lack of a steady food and fluid intake— likely also, strained sleep patterns and general stress. They'd cleaned and dressed the red cuts and rope burns, wrapping his wrists and ankles with thick white bandages that reminded him of sweatbands. They also loosely wrapped the bruises across his torso. The bruise under his eye where Marte had punched him four or five days ago was still there; he was told ice was best for it, and his nose, to help keep the swelling down. _Ice,_ Shawn thought as the doctor spoke. _In the 21st century age of modern medicine, ice is the best you've got to offer. Swell._ At least there were the painkillers.

"Dad?" Shawn called out, after what seemed a few minutes had passed that Henry was still waiting in the doorway.

Henry fumbled to open the door the rest of the way. He hastily wiped his face with his hand, then proceeded into the room. "Shawn, you're awake." Henry's voice was thick and shaky. "I'm glad." Shawn peered at his father with surprise.

"I wasn't before?" Shawn asked, vaguely recalling Henry at his side for a little while some hospital people talked over him.

"You were kind of here and there," Henry told him, looking over his son in affectionate paternal way. He tried to regain control of his emotions by reminding himself how reckless Shawn had been— but he couldn't bring himself to scold Shawn when he thought of the other man who was alive and safe because of Shawn's bravery. Instead, he heard himself saying, "I'm proud of you, kid." He had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Geez, Dad," Shawn muttered, looking down. "I'm okay. You don't have to—"

Henry was silent for a few seconds. He noted his son sounded chastised, as if he expected Henry's anger. Henry pulled a chair close to Shawn's bed and sank into it. He reached out and grabbed Shawn's fingers, giving them a good squeeze. Warm blood. Life. His son was here— and eyeing him as if he'd lost his mind. "I missed you," Henry muttered, keeping his head down.

"You— you shouldn't have come," Shawn said softly. "I wanted to warn you, but they were always there— they—" Shawn turned his head away from Henry to stare blankly at the other wall.

Henry stole a glance at Shawn and found he couldn't look away. He could clearly see the marks still cut into him Shawn's cheeks where the cloth had sat for four days. "They were terrifying, Shawn. I understand. I— I wish I could have kept them from getting their hands on you."

Shawn huffed with self loathing. "It was my own fault."

Henry made an annoyed sound. "God, not you too. It was _not_ your fault."

Shawn slowly turned his head. "What? No lecture about getting in over my head?"

Henry shook his head. "Not this time, kid. The good far outweighs the bad, here."

"Huh?" Shawn looked confused, trying to understand what Henry had just said.

"Besides," Henry continued, "I would have come for you, regardless of any warning."

"Um, Dad? You're hurting my hand," Shawn told Henry sheepishly. Henry realized that's where he'd transferred his anger about the twisted logic of the criminals and what horrible things they'd done— all to exact revenge on a blameless person, whose only crime had being a young, hardworking cop. Henry mumbled an apology, loosening his grip on Shawn's fingers but not letting go completely.

"Can you— try to promise me one thing, Shawn?" Henry asked.

"What's that?" Shawn asked, wary.

"If there's a next time— knowing you, there will be— could you come to me sooner?"

"Dad—"

"Because I don't know if my heart can take it, if you vanish again like that." Henry sighed. "I know you can handle yourself, Shawn, but try to look at it this way— I should go before you, okay?"

Shawn opened his mouth, stunned at the near morbid turn this conversation had taken. There had been many a time they'd argued murderously and he'd wished death or the worst evils to befall his father— but this? "Dad . . . I . . . I'll try."

Henry nodded, satisfied. He pried his fingers from Shawn's, and ruffled his son's hair.

"So, is Lassiter okay?"

Henry sat back and sighed. "I haven't seen him yet, but his doctors say he should make a full recovery."

There was something Henry wasn't telling him. "How badly was he injured?"

Henry sighed again. "Do you want before, or after?"

"Before— or after?" Shawn repeated, staring at Henry quizzically.

Henry explained that "before" referred to the beating he'd taken from Marte, and that "after" meant his injuries sustained after he'd left the hospital.

"Oh," Shawn said. "I don't know."

Henry frowned. "You saw the bruising on his ribs, right?"

Shawn nodded, frowning at the image.

"There was that, plus what you saw, I'm sure— black eye, swollen nose, split lip, his wrist sprained worse— and various cuts and bruises up and down his body. That brute choked him unconscious and he was out like a light for two solid days."

"God," Shawn muttered, feeling queasy. "And that was before?"

Henry nodded.

"But he's going to be okay, right?" Shawn asked, suddenly worried he'd cracked or broken Lassiter's ribs during the CPR, and that there was internal bleeding and— or a bad head wound or— _I was trying to help— did I just make things worse?_

"Calm down," Henry told him, hearing the incessant beep of the heart monitor speed up and gain volume. "What's the matter?" he asked gently, squeezing Shawn's hand again.

Shawn took some deep breaths, and then repeated his fears to Henry. "No— his ribs are still just badly bruised. There's no internal bleeding, no head wound or brain damage from nearly drowning, no damage sustained by the fall, and his lungs are clear of any water he swallowed. He had a trace of hypothermia, like you— but you've both experienced trauma so you'd be more susceptible. The cold water actually helped his injuries, because he'd been close to going into shock from the pain Notte had inflicted on his already unstable system. He's got the broken wrist, which I've been told was a clean break, the other wrist is sprained, and he's got nasty bruising around his chin where that bastard dug the gun into his skin." Henry sniffed. "He's malnourished, because apparently he wasn't eating—"

"I knew it," Shawn muttered. Henry nodded, remembering the conversation with Lassiter over the Power Bars. "So, what's wrong with him then? Is he in a coma?" Henry looked surprised. "What aren't you telling me?" Shawn pressed.

Henry seemed uncomfortable. "No coma. It's— it's this mystery drug he was given, Shawn."

"What about it?" Shawn cut in.

"They're worried about how it's going to react with any other drug— painkiller— he's given."

The realization shot across Shawn's face. He tried to sit up but it hurt so he let himself fall back down. "They haven't given him anything for the pain? Nothing?"

"They are— a short time ago— small doses, keeping him sedated for now, according to the doctors," Henry said. "I guess they think he had a bad reaction before when he was on the morphine— he ran a high risk of slipping into a coma. But they're especially worried because they still haven't been able to pull much of it up in the tox screens. It seems those creeps were right— it's hiding in his bloodstream— they don't know how to fix it."

"Does he know?" Shawn was staring at the ceiling. He felt a burn of fury— those evil creatures were going to win after all.

"I don't know. Karen says that since the sedation, he's in and out of consciousness mostly, but I don't know if he's been lucid enough to have a conversation with. I don't know if he's even capable of peaceful sleep with this drug in his system. But he needs to rest and it's better if he isn't awake to feel all the pain."

Shawn wondered if Lassiter was asleep, there would be less chance of him getting too scared. Unless there were more violent memories . . . "We have to do something," Shawn said to the ceiling. "This is crap." He made a fist from his free hand. "I promised—"

Henry nodded. "So did I." He thought about how brave Lassiter had been, how hard he'd worked to stay focused and combat his fear— just to make sure they ended up safe. And now— to find this out— Henry felt the same way he had as when he saw Notte entering Lassiter's hospital room. The breath had gone out of him. The only reason Shawn was alive and safe was because Lassiter had stood up for them, despite his fear, then Shawn had turned around and worked just as hard save Lassiter— what he'd been trying to do all along.

Henry thought briefly about mentioning Gus to take Shawn's mind off of this— an unexpected problem that may not have a solution— but he reasoned it would only upset Shawn further. Henry wasn't about to leave Gus in prison, but right now, this moment— it was between him and his son.

After agonizingly long stretches of terror, not knowing if he would go free, Shawn found himself exhausted from the whirlwind of today. Or was it now tonight? Hours and hours had passed; inside his tiny isolated world, the flutter of activity had been minor. But outside? They must have been working furiously to help Lassiter in whatever way they could.

_It's that way, isn't it?_ he mused. _There's always someone who wants to— will— save you, even if you can't predict it. I'm safe,_ Shawn thought with awe, staring at the calm, blank room. He knew that there would be at least two people— plus the bulk to of the Santa Barbara Police Department— who would do everything in their power to make sure those criminals never came after him again. He sighed inwardly. One of those people still needed help.

There was another knock on the door. Henry patted Shawn's arm; Shawn nodded. "Come in," Henry called.

The door swung open, Vick and Juliet stepping in. After general greetings, Vick asked, "Is this a bad time?" Juliet's eyes were red and puffy.

Shawn exchanged a quick glance with Henry, before moving one hand into his signature vision gesture. "Chief, I'm sensing you need some spiritual guidance," Shawn said, his voice still somewhat raspy.

"Yes— well, no," Vick amended.

"About Lass— iter, and the fear," Shawn continued.

"Yes," Juliet said, her voice choked up. She had already dropped into a chair on the other side of the bed, and had fervently taken Shawn's other hand. Henry wondered if Shawn would be able to politely tell her she may be squeezing too hard. He smirked. His son was in good hands.

Henry got up, figuring this may take some time, but it was damn important they found out from the person who knew the most— and had the best memory— since their abductor had confided in Shawn. "Anyone with him right now?" Henry asked Karen on his way out.

Vick shrugged. "McNab said he'd look in, but I don't know how long that will last." She implored him with her expression. "Could you?"

Henry threw one more look at Shawn, who actually smiled at him, and then turned back to her. "You can never have too many friends who really care," he said.


	26. Chapter 25: The Answer To The Question

**Chapter Twenty Five: Perhaps The Answer To The Question Lies In The Question, Perhaps You Should Read My Thoughts**

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Disclaimer: The information about DCS (a tuberculosis drug called D-cycloserine) comes from this website: http://www **dot** defensetech **dot** org/archives/002578 **dot** html and thus does not at all belong to me. I also do not own references to Polaroid or _Cops_.

Author's Note: This chapter contains both information about a real drug (see above) and one made up for the purpose of this story. I'm also not a chemist so I really don't know for certain about chemical properties and synthesizing and all that, so I just ask you suspend your disbelief if you out there happen to be in that field. Thanks!

Thanks so much to all my reviewers, signed and anonymous! I also wanted to acknowledge how much you anonymous reviewers mean to me too, just in case you didn't know (you might not since I can't send you an author response if you aren't signed in). You are all wonderful and thanks again for your time and kind words! :) Thanks again to everyone for reading! :D

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* * *

Three days had already passed, a day and a half spent on guarded sedation, and now, a low dose aspirin. It was something, but not enough. Not exactly shirking their duties, but unable to focus on serious tasks with such heavy hearts, Karen and Juliet had taken turns sitting at Lassiter's bedside throughout those first two days. Other officers and detectives dropped in periodically, on lunch breaks or when off duty; they always found one of them there as an informal guardian.

A new case had taken Juliet away, once again teaming up with Adam Samuelson until Carlton was physically and emotionally ready to come back to work. Plus, there was much to be done on this recent case. Lassiter had been cleared and reinstated, but they had hit a snag when it came to proving Burton Guster's innocence. Shawn and Henry had yet to give their statements, and the three non-shot Nottes were, as of yet, uncooperative.

Into the third afternoon, Karen went to Lassiter's room. She paused a moment outside his door, trying again to put her thoughts in order. She had stayed up late last night, looking over her sleeping daughter lovingly, thinking again and again of the right way to apologize to her Head Detective. Her daughter was still young— she wasn't yet a preteen or teen, her lip curling up with angst, her big eyes filled up with defiance, yet saying, "I hate you. How could you do that to me?"

She felt a little cowardly, prefacing her apology with the regift of his badge, palming it to him, telling him of his returned, respectable status. He asked immediately about his guns; Vick told him they would also be returned— as soon as he was well enough to return home. She was almost surprised he didn't make a move to get out of bed then.

It was hard for her to tell if he knew the reason she was there; both of them wore pain across their faces, the divide between them even more strained, it seemed, since Karen first admitted to Lassiter she had been wrong. But, was that true? Or had a barely detectable process of healing begun? She wanted instant results— things returned to their proper positions, as if none of this had ever happened. Inwardly, she sighed. These things she wanted— they could hardly compare to what Lassiter must want. As she looked him over, and he didn't look away, she knew she had to start.

"Carlton," Karen began, sighing heavily, "I don't even know where to begin." She paced for a few minutes; she felt his eyes still on her. Eventually, she took her usual seat, but perched on the edge rather than using the whole seat. Just in case she needed to spring up at a moment's notice to prove a point.

"Then can we just skip this part?" Lassiter interjected before the silence could settle too uncomfortably around them. He watched her pace, not sure what unnerved him more, that she might yell at him or that there would be weepy apologies. He shifted in bed, bumping his cast on the rail. Pain spiked up to his elbow, but he worked to keep it off his face. Lassiter wished he could forget the memories of— well, forgetting the whole Notte ordeal would be stellar, but unlikely to happen— the day he'd been held hostage in front of several of his police officers and colleagues, had nearly drowned, and then had tried to shut off the pain of his injuries without any success. He didn't have complete clarity since arriving at the hospital for the fourth time in less than a month, but felt he'd cried at least once in front of Vick, or maybe it had been O'Hara. It bothered him, showing those weaknesses, but had come to reason that if it had been O'Hara, it wouldn't cloud her judgment of his character. After all, she had been wary of the guilty charge against him from the beginning, and had given into her doubts much sooner than anyone else.

"No," Vick said firmly. "We can't. I've read through that journal several times. Shawn told me you had planned to bring it to my attention."

"Yes," Lassiter said. "I'd just remembered about Sweets' murder— after a particular bad set of memories." He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Spencer helped me sort out the images— and offered me proof that I was innocent of the killing. It was a relief to finally know; to be able to remember what happened."

"I'm so sorry you had to face all of that alone."

Lassiter snorted. Then he mumbled, "I wasn't completely alone. Spencer was—"

Vick raised an eyebrow. "Why was that exactly? Why was Shawn—?"

Lassiter raised his left hand in a gesture of unknowing. "I didn't ask him— at least, not right away. He wouldn't let it go. He was convinced I was in trouble and that he needed to help me." _Because no one else would. _

Vick nodded. "He was right."

Carlton sighed, hating to admit it, but did. "Yes— Spencer was right." He looked away for a moment, seemingly lost in a mixture of gratitude and fear, as if going over, yet again, what could or would have happened to him if Shawn hadn't been so annoyingly persistent. "I wanted to kick him, though, on the pier." He shivered involuntarily, and tried to stop his mind from reliving each detail. He had actually blocked out the last few minutes, coming awake again after he hit the water. "I thought he was going to get shot."

Karen remembered what Shawn had said: _"If he focuses on me, then it's worth it. Save Lassie." _She had been struck at the volume of Shawn's worry— and Henry's, as well, for Lassiter's well being. She still found herself startled by Shawn's anger towards the obsessed young woman— and how she had, somehow, beyond Vick's basis of knowledge, managed to give away the location of Lassiter's planned demise. Vick closed her eyes; it seemed Shawn had just known everything from the start—_ if I had just listened, I wouldn't have to frantically search the ocean for signs of life._

Karen studied Lassiter. "Detective, your bravery through this whole ordeal is admirable—" She broke off, standing again to pace.

_Bravery?_ Lassiter wondered at her word choice. He knew he'd been a shaking, blubbering, terrified mess— barely holding the essence of his self together.

When she spoke again, he could hear tears in her voice. He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm so sorry I didn't take you at your word, from the very start. You tried— many others too— to tell me there was something off, but I just kept seeing with black and white vision. I can't apologize enough— I hope one of these days I can earn your trust back."

_What?_ Lassiter's eyes traveled her face with blatant surprise. He paused for breath, which seemed to be seeping away from his lungs.

Her hand went to his arm, concern all over her features. "Are you all right?" He nodded, but she stayed close, as if she owed him this.

"I— are you sure?" Lassiter felt stupid for asking it, but it was hard to believe what she was saying. He felt lightheaded— the room spun with her words sticking to the air. He felt her squeeze his arm, and left himself drift back, focusing on her face.

"Things will be different," she said.

"I just want them to go back to the way they were," he sighed.

"We need to make right with you," Vick said, "not the other way around. At least, I do."

Lassiter eyed her, not sure what to say. He felt conflicted— both assured and self-conscious.

"We almost lost you," she continued, shaking her head. "Right under my nose. I'm sorry I did that to you."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows, fully expecting her anger, not another apology. "You?"

"You tried to tell me— but I made myself unavailable, inaccessible."

"Chief, you had hard facts— even if they weren't true. It looked really bad— and I know I kept making it worse." Lassiter studied the ceiling, not wanting to admit the depths his terror stretched into; but suspected she already knew. After all, she'd been there at the forefront while Notte held him hostage, and then after, in the water.

"I had to be objective— you know how this works." She shifted her weight. "But it took me so long to get my priorities straight." _And that whole time, you were suffering. . . ._

"I didn't make it very easy for you," Lassiter said, still staring at the ceiling. He sighed. "I was— I panicked every waking moment. I kept getting this nasty memory of— _Donia_"— he shuddered over the mention of her name— "telling me there would be hell to pay if I talked to the police— it really messed with me every single time. Everything they did and said—" He swallowed hard and then frowned. _What Roman Cavaliere had dealt in . . . untested, experimental, dangerous . . . so the side effects so shocking and unable to fix._ "In short, I was— they had made me too scared. And that drug— it just makes every second worse."

He bit his top lip; Vick's eyes had filled up at his words. She wanted to tell him something reassuring about the drug, but she was vehement that so far, there wasn't a solution. She turned away, trying to hide it. Lassiter decided if she was going to be emotional in front of him, he could too. "Chief, I appreciate—" He remembered her aggressiveness on the pier; it made him proud to be one of her detectives. "You came through for me. Even if— not right away— um." Lassiter tried to form his thoughts and emotions into words, but it only seemed to make her cry harder. Her shoulders shook. "I guess I just want to say—uh— thank you. You, O'Hara, McNab, everyone— saved my life. I never thought I was— worth it. It's still a mystery to me why Spencer— both of them, actually— worked so hard to help me."

It took Vick a few minutes to compose herself, then she turned to him. "Carlton, you are worth it. You have no idea how much the SBPD needs you, do you?" She smiled when he shook his head, seeming stunned at this news. "I understand why Shawn and Henry were on your side much sooner than the rest of us. They're both very stubborn— and determined. Combative— reluctant to take no for an answer." She winked at him.

Lassiter eyed her, the trace of a smile on his face. "So am I."

"I know, Detective." She pursed her lips, then sniffed. "There's something I need to know."

Lassiter looked back at her seriously. He waited, thousands of thoughts shooting like comets through the blue-black sky of his mind.

"Carlton, do I need to charge Henry Spencer?"

Lassiter's face scrunched up with confusion, then he realized what she was getting at. He shook his head carefully. "No, Chief, Henry didn't abduct me." He was trying very hard not to smile. Vick, likely about to add a tirade of comments, or, at the very least, a mini lecture, was startled by a knock on the door.

* * *

Vick and Lassiter looked towards the door. They exchanged a look, and then Vick called out, "Come in." Both were surprised to see the latest visitors enter.

"Hello, Detective Lassiter, Chief Vick," Dr. Rhodes greeted, first, followed by Jeremy Oswley, who also said hello.

Lassiter opened his mouth to say something, but wasn't sure what. His eyes slid to Vick with question. She shrugged, indicating that she didn't know why they were here either.

"I get you're wondering what we're doing here, right?" Oswley asked, nodding in their direction.

Vick held up her hand. "Detective Lassiter has been cleared of all charges."

Oswley nodded again. "Yes, we do know. That's not why we're here though." He cleared his throat. "First, we've got a confession to make, then I hope you'll listen to what we have to say."

Both looked confused. "What kind of confession?" Vick asked. It seemed funny that Oswley, the lawyer, would use that terminology in front of two police officers.

Lassiter and Vick listened as the two professionals described what they had done. Lassiter was speechless, but Vick was growing angrier by the second; he could see her face from the corner of his eye. From their brief meetings, Lassiter had suspected they thought him as crazy as the people who knew him well, and that they were conspiring against him— but though their motives seemed unethical, they had actually been on his side from the very beginning.

"I know the measures we went to were extreme, but we have been concerned about your condition since our first meeting," Dr. Rhodes told him.

Lassiter tried to process this. "You— have?"

"You took his blood— without asking him?" Vick cut in. "While he was unconscious?"

"Not to be smart, Chief Vick," Oswley retorted with a raised eyebrow, "but didn't you do the exact same thing with your tox screen?"

Vick clamped her mouth shut, a furious blush creeping across her cheeks. Lassiter shot a look at her face, then one to Dr. Rhodes'. Funny, neither woman really struck him as the "steal your blood" type. He felt a numbness where any usual anger should be; these were minor violations; easier, he reasoned, to get passed. And without therapy, which he knew he was going to have to concede to should he ever want to get back to police work. Inwardly, he sighed. He wasn't going to fight anyone on that, but he decided he would request someone else.

"Dr. Rhodes performed the task I asked of her," Oswley said, defending her. He threw a look at Lassiter. "I'm sorry, Detective, that we had to take such drastic measures— violate your privacy and rights they way we did."

"We did what we had to do," Dr. Rhodes insisted, looking from Lassiter to Vick. "I apologize to both of you, but, Chief Vick, but in our professional opinions, you did not recognize the obvious signs—"

Vick raised a hand. _Was she ever going to stop feeling ashamed?_ "I know. I know. And you're saying that you did."

"Yes," Dr. Rhodes stated simply, and Oswley nodded in agreement. "We knew we needed to have your blood retested, Detective, by a trained chemist— one who knew exactly what to look for."

"But, they said— they said it's unknown— that no one—" Lassiter broke off, remembering the volley between Cybil and Notte about the explanation of the drug. He felt Vick's hand brush his hair; he wondered if all this touching wasn't against some harassment policy. Not that he really minded (had this ordeal made him a little soft? Before, wouldn't he have stiffened away from any touch? Or was it just that he could separate concern in tactile form touching his arm from a hand crushing his shoulder, or the kiss of a friend on his forehead from the forced kiss of a crazy woman against his lips?). He was starting to understand that Vick had been terribly worried about him from the beginning, even though she'd had a hard time saying or showing it. She had shown it with her proximity and her small touches— she wanted to believe in him, fight for him. He struggled with the rest of the words. "Unless someone knew what the look for—"

"That's true," Dr. Rhodes said calmly, "but we _were_ looking for something— we knew something was off. Your reactions seemed, to both of us, intensified to the point of those of POWs who'd spent years in captivity, rather than days."

"What?" Lassiter and Vick said at the same time. They exchanged a look. _Where, exactly, could this confession be leading?_

"It made the most sense that it was some kind of drug. You see, I've had experience with this sort of thing— I was in that field before entering this one. I had professional contacts who I knew could correctly analyze your blood— figure properties and potencies," Oswley continued. "The reason haven't gotten back to you sooner, Carlton— we've been working on the tests. What they found were rare ingredients derived from poppies—" Lassiter's mind wandered as Oswley spoke. He wasn't sure how much of this he really wanted to know. He let his eyes close, figuring Vick could fill him in later.

"Carlton, are you all right?" Vick asked, shaking him awake. His eyes went to all of their faces— they looked concerned; he was confused.

"What's—?" he asked.

"Is this too much for you?" Vick asked, keeping her eyes on him. He realized suddenly his face was wet; had he been panicking again? He didn't remember it. He shook his head, then focused on the pair. Vick sighed, motioning for them to continue.

"Sorry, we figured it would be overwhelming— but we are here for a reason," Oswley said.

"Other than this?" Vick spat with some disgust, squeezing Lassiter's arm. It was strange, her want to protect him all of a sudden. Lassiter looked her over. Maybe . . . it wasn't so sudden.

Oswley and Dr. Rhodes exchanged a small smile. Oswley nodded at her, and Dr. Rhodes spoke. "There is an experimental anti-fear drug newly on the market. The drug, D-cycloserine, or DCS, was originally for created to treat tuberculosis. But it has been tested on POWs and other war veterans— and studies have shown that DCS, over time, inhibits the fear receptors in the brain and has the potential for the mind to unlearn the fear response."

Lassiter exchanged a long glance with Vick; both were confused.

Oswley smiled. "Don't worry, it gets better," he told them. "Ann?"

Dr. Rhodes nodded, and then continued. "Mr. Oswley's chemists were able to devise a sort of antidote for this experimental amphetamine which you were dosed with, Detective Lassiter, from the some of the properties of DCS ."

Lassiter's mouth dropped open. He was having a hard time following this; his heart pounded wildly in his ears, his outer skin felt hot. _An _antidote_? An antidote to the _Belladormita_? Was it actually possible?_ He shot Karen a look only to see a mirror of his own reaction.

Dr. Rhodes opened her purse and retrieved a syringe which was filled with a clear liquid. "Now, you must understand that _this_ isn't DCS— it's only derived from it. You will not be needing constant injections of this for the rest of your life to reign in your fear. The purpose of this is to expedite the amphetamine out of your system."

"What?" Lassiter breathed, disbelieving. "It will be— gone? Completely gone?" His eyes lingered on the syringe in Dr. Rhodes' hand.

Both Oswley and Dr. Rhodes smiled again. "We will have to run tests on your blood to know for certain," Dr. Rhodes told him honestly, "but this is the best option available."

Karen also felt breathless. This seemed too good to be true— how could they be sure it would work?

Staring at the syringe brought on the slightest twinge of worry. Carlton bit down on his lip; this was the last thing he wanted— to lose it in front of all of them— yet again. He clenched his stomach muscles and jaw, trying to force the reaction back down. The fear pushed back, rattling his ribcage. The present was dissolving too quickly into the past; the bright hospital light melted into near pitch darkness. Notte's exposed face leering at him, his hands tight around Carlton's wrist, against his mouth, his neck throbbing from the recent punch. Cybil, still masked, approaching with the uncapped needle.

"No," Lassiter called out sharply. He could feel, at that moment, Notte's stale breath on his face. Then, Notte restraining him on the pier. The Glock digging into his chin. . . . _Oh, god. You've got to come back,_ he told himself. _Come back._ Lassiter blushed furiously, half remembering where he was; he could feel the pain of his broken bones, of the other injuries sustained at their hands.

"Calm down, it's all right," Dr. Rhodes hushed towards Lassiter.

"No." Lassiter's voice pitched with fear. A cold sweat had broken out across his forehead. His eyes swung towards Vick, trying to focus on the present; it was so hard. He couldn't possibly live the rest of his life like this, a prisoner of fear.

"What is this?" Vick asked, looking over her writhing , panicking detective. "What's happening to him?" Lassiter had unwittingly grabbed her hand and had his fingers wrapped so tightly around hers that she winced. Her chest tightened with worry and remorse.

"He's probably reliving the memory of the abduction," Dr. Rhodes told her quietly. She took the syringe away from Carlton's line of vision.

"This is the drug working him over like this?" Vick asked, astounded. Oswley motioned to her that they should speak "privately" in a corner of the room for a minute. She had to pry her fingers loose. Dr. Rhodes nodded, offering her own hand to his to squeeze the hell out of until he calmed down.

"Yes," Oswley told her. "From our tests, we've discovered the drug he was dosed with has properties which react to fear. It increases paranoia, no matter how small and depending on the situation, can cause a full blown panic attack. Lassiter has been fainting because it's his central nervous system's natural way of protecting him— otherwise, his fear chemicals in his body could spike too high and— and kill him."

Vick was shocked. "Kill him? _Scare_ him to death?"

"Yes," Oswley confirmed. "And he is experiencing PTSD—"

Vick nodded. "Yes. I'd imagine he would be." She huffed. "Mr. Oswley, my detective's been through so much— is this really going to help him or just make things worse?" Karen gazed at Lassiter, recalling each time he had struggled through a dream— a memory— while she had been present. She felt white hot anger; she wanted to literally kill the people responsible for this— in cold blood.

"Well, if you're thinking it's some kind of magic shot, it's not," Oswley told her. Vick raised an eyebrow, about to protest, but Oswley continued, "From the tests we've performed, it seems the expedient will cause violent sickness— it's meant to detox. Doesn't come without a price, you know."

"What does that mean?" Vick asked.

"Shakes, at the least, and vomiting at the most. Lots of sweating; fever and chills. He's probably going to feel every injury from a paper cut to broken bones with such intensity it might seem like he's dying." He sighed, noticing how horrified Vick looked. "It's not going to kill him, Chief Vick, but the cure has to be more potent and aggressive than this nasty amphetamine. You have to understand that it's worth the risk."

Lassiter moaned, his eyes squeezed shut. His back had arched; his muscles rigid. Karen wanted to scream— the things that had been done to him. "But he's innocent," she mumbled, not realizing she had spoken it aloud. "He doesn't deserve this."

"No, he doesn't," Oswley spoke up, startling her. She flushed. Karen went back to Lassiter, letting her hand rest tentatively against his cheek. He was burning up.

"Carlton," Karen placated, "it's all right. It's all over— they're not going to come after you again. I— I promise. They're in jail, where they belong. Believe me— please. I will personally make certain they keep their distance from you." She continued with more reassurance until he seemed to relax. His eyes opened slowly.

Carlton reacted to Vick's cool hand, letting its presence ground him. "I— I'm sorry," he muttered almost inaudibly. He felt so stupid for losing control. He released Dr. Rhodes' hand, making it into a loose fist instead.

"Carlton, you have nothing to apologize for— you're innocent. And you're safe," Vick said firmly. "You have your whole department behind you. When we're not being blinded fools, we remember to take care of our own."

Lassiter pressed his mouth into a tight line. His head was spinning.

"I need you to listen to me, okay? Dr. Rhodes and Mr. Oswley want to help you." She related to him what Oswley had told her about the antidote's side effects, then asked the pair again, "Are you positive this is going to work? This _Belladormita_ crap will be gone?"

Lassiter turned his head, focusing on her. She had seemed so angry a few minutes ago— that they had violated his rights— and now she was actually considering letting them— "Chief," he said softly. He wasn't certain if he could handle seeing the syringe again, let alone knowing he was being injected with something else nearly untested and experimental. The fear started to creep back.

Vick put her eyes on his. "Carlton— I know you're scared. So am I— but if they can help you, I think we— you— should let them." She set her mouth. "Besides, I'd rather give the motion to proceed with your permission." Lassiter's face fell into shock, realizing she was about to make this into an order— mandatory that he cooperate. "Because, Detective," Vick continued firmly, "I'm not about to stand by and allow you to be controlled by some dangerous substance if there's something that can be done." Karen knew she was pushing her luck, especially since who these others were who had just overhead her "confession", but they were words she needed to say. She owed him.

Oswley said, "We've already spoken to your doctor— since you aren't on any medications, it's been all cleared. Whenever you're ready, Detective."

Lassiter took in some shallow breaths. _Already? Right now?_ It was happening so fast, he didn't have time to think it through.

"Think about it in these terms, Detective Lassiter," Dr. Rhodes began. "No more unexplained fainting episodes, no more violent memories or dreams associated with your ordeals, no more overwhelming bouts of terror. No more magnified paranoia. You can finally have a good night's sleep, get back to your life."

_No more being haunted?_ Lassiter wondered silently. He sighed. They weren't going to let him get out of this. He willingly reached for Vick's hand, and closed his eyes. "Okay," Carlton said. "I'm ready."

* * *

Shawn had been released from the hospital after two overnights; Henry had insisted Shawn stay for a few days in his childhood bedroom, until one or the other got sick of each other. Shawn realized he could have argued, pleaded his case about being grown, but he found he wasn't ready to return to life as it was. Besides, he didn't have Gus to pal around with yet; his best friend was still in a place where he didn't belong.

Finally well enough two days later to make a public appearance, Shawn and Henry had gone together to the Santa Barbara police station to give their statements. Neither had realized the process was going to take nearly the entire day.

They heard about Lassiter's good news from Juliet upon arrival at the station. "'Bout time," Shawn had mumbled. Those crazy, vindictive bastards weren't going to win after all, he beamed to his father, who returned the smile. We_ win, you lose,_ Shawn thought.

Shawn sipped at a pineapple smoothie someone had graciously bought for him. He and Henry were sitting— resting for a few moments before the next round of questions— at one of the empty desks, when Karen Vick's office door opened and she appeared in hallway, furious. She marched towards them, setting her sights on Henry.

"Henry Spencer," Vick growled, "you are in so much trouble."

Shawn raised an eyebrow, glancing at his father. "_You're_ in trouble, Dad?" he asked, dubious. "Why?"

Henry sighed, his mouth a tight line as he stared back at Vick who had her arms crossed, the angles of her face sharpened. He wondered why she hadn't confronted about this immediately. "It's nothing, Shawn," he told his son in a low voice.

"It is mostly certainly _not_ nothing," Vick countered.

Henry frowned. "What I meant was, it's nothing for him to worry about." A curious look had opened Shawn's face, a small twinkle present in his eyes. Henry admitted that was a good thing to see, but he wasn't actually ready to discuss this with Shawn yet. "Can we talk privately?" he asked, catching a flicker of disappointment from Shawn.

"My office," Vick motioned, turning on her heel. Henry followed.

"Dad, is this serious?" Shawn asked, standing up.

Henry turned and offered his son a small smile. "I'll tell you about it later. You can laugh at your old man then, okay?" He left Shawn standing there with a half open mouth and went to Karen's office, closing the door.

"I have half a mind to throw you in jail right now," Karen started immediately once the door was closed. There was a tic above her left eye that Henry couldn't help focusing on. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Henry opened his mouth, knowing full well that Vick was not done with her rant. He pretended to be chastised when she cut him off. "You are a retired sergeant for god's sake! You should know better!" She began a hurried pacing in front of him. "What you did was practically kidnapping! Do you know what it's like to get a call from the hospital where your injured head detective is supposed to be recovering and hear that he's missing? Missing, again? And then to not tell us Shawn's abductors had contacted you?! Well, don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Henry could see the fire in her eyes. Though the door was shut, he suspected anyone close enough to the office— including Shawn, who was likely nearby— could probably hear every word she said because her voice rose with every sentence.

Henry shrugged. "I'm guilty," he told her. "I knew the risks I was taking— and fully expected the consequences."

"Did you?" Vick broke in. "You put Shawn's life in greater jeopardy by not telling us what was going on."

Henry felt his temper flare. "I couldn't— because ninety-five percent of it involved Lassiter, and you didn't believe a single word he said." Henry took advantage of the her frozen look to continue. "I acknowledge that not letting you know directly went against every instinct I had as a cop— but admittedly, I was scared. Shawn's my son— and I knew the second that bastard mentioned those documents that Lassiter was involved somehow— even though at that time I had no idea how." He sighed loudly. "I took Lassiter with me because he insisted that he would go alone to rescue Shawn— and for god's sake, I wasn't about to let him out of my sight." Vick still looked stunned, so he went on. "As soon as I started finding out what was going on— the things Shawn had discovered— god— I felt this obligation to him."

"Shawn?" Vick asked.

Henry threw up his hands. "Shawn, of course, but I felt because I was taking over Shawn's case in a way, that I needed to become responsible for Lassiter's protection." Henry noted her sideways look. "I know how that sounds, I do. But he was far past the normal capacity of fear. I didn't know what it was or what to make of it at first, but I knew it was affecting him badly. He was not at all himself."

"Yes," Karen said, nodding. "I understand that now."

"The kid was in need—" Henry broke off, realizing his slip when he caught a slightly amused look on Karen's mouth. "I mean, _Detective Lassiter_, in that state, reminded me of Shawn whenever _my kid's_ in any kind of trouble. I just couldn't turn my back on him."

"Thank you," Karen said, a bit begrudgingly.

"Thank you?" Henry repeated, raising his eyebrows.

Vick sighed. "Thank you for watching out for him— he's lucky to have good friends."

Henry offered a wry smile. "He damn well is." He studied her. "You knew something was wrong from the beginning, didn't you?"

Vick flushed slowly. "I suspected a lot of things— including that Lassiter was capable of committing the murder. I'm such an idiot." She sighed. "What he told me what he'd remembered after being taken— it sounded incredulous." She shook her head. "I should have been able to trust myself; Lassiter has never lied to me before." She sighed again. "It seemed everyone around me— including Lassiter— could see the truth, which I could only see as a lie." Vick was silent for a moment. "I have much to answer for— most of all, his forgiveness." She eyed Henry, then crossed her arms. "He's not pressing charges against you."

Henry smirked. "You sound disappointed."

"I am, a little." Karen let her face relax.

"It's not considered kidnapping if he was willing to go."

Karen raised an eyebrow. "You know, he told me a similar thing." She sighed. "I almost lost him— for good. Where the hell would I find a better head detective, anyway? It's— I hate to think of it. Shawn's a hero."

He sniffed. "Don't tell him that. It'll go straight to his head." Karen winced a little. "You already told him, didn't you?"

"Maybe, a little," Vick admitted, smiling.

Henry sighed. "I know what you mean— hating to think of it."

"What?"

"About not being able to forgive yourself if something happened to Lassiter."

Karen looked surprised. "How did you know that?"

Henry smiled. "Because it's the same way I felt. He told me at one point to not worry about him, to just take Shawn and run. I'd told him no way in hell— I felt as much responsible for him as for Shawn." Henry absentmindedly scratched the back of his head. "I am proud of Shawn's courage, but I think Lassiter's a definite hero— and a damn fine cop. You're lucky to serve with him."

Vick had to look away, wiping at something under her eye. "I know," she said.

* * *

"Any give?" Vick asked Samuelson early the next day when he stopped by her office with paperwork.

Samuelson sighed. "No. They're still refusing to speak anything but Italian. And even with translators and lawyers, they're refusing to speak."

"Goddammit," Vick muttered. "Well, no way are they getting off. They can not speak themselves all the way to prison." She made a fist in frustration but let it loosen before she could slam it on her desk.

"That bastard still in critical?"

Vick nodded. Though the rest of the family wasn't yet talking, it seemed obvious Bernise Notte had been the mastermind— though it was arguable who among them held the title of "most deranged". She wished the bastard dead, so she could be convinced he'd never resurface to harm Lassiter again. Because of what Shawn had said of what Notte told him, the SBPD had launched a massive investigation into questioning the staff and employees at Santa Barbara General, Central Coast and North Coast Pharmaceuticals, trying to find out if it was true what Notte had said— that they really did have "eyes and ears everywhere". It made her shudder, just considering how long and how many people may have been watching Carlton— and then reporting back to this twisted family.

"From what's been discovered so far, seems this Cybil Notte was a jack-of-all-trades type— locksmith, mechanic, plumber, among other things."

"Don't forget kidnapper, thief, and murderer," Vick added.

Samuelson nodded. "Well, fraud and forgery can be added to the list of charges against them," he told Vick. "Turns out those bank statements and accounts are real— but they certainly don't belong to Burton Guster."

"Who do they belong to?" Vick asked, looking over the paperwork.

"The Nottes— or Cavalieres, whatever they're calling themselves these days." He explained that the amount in the funds was really there, but it hadn't been stolen from Central Coast. "It was the pay out the Cavaliere family got for selling Central Coast back in 1998. It was virtually untouched— as if they were waiting for the right moment to use it. They did some altering— or had some computer expert or hacker do it for them— and suddenly, because they need to get Guster out of the way— it was his mess."

"I can't believe the lengths they went to—" Vick stopped.

"Chief, they did it to all of us," Samuelson told her. "We were all convinced—"

"It doesn't make it right," Vick cut in. She picked up the phone.

* * *

"Does he know the charges have been dropped?" Shawn asked Henry as they got out of the truck at the county lockup.

"I don't know," Henry said. "He might not. Karen said she'd talked already to his lawyer and they were finalizing the paperwork— so that by the time we got here everything should be settled."

As soon as they got in, Henry spoke to the woman at the desk. After a few minutes, Henry motioned Shawn to follow. They were led through a hallway into a waiting area, which was empty. "Is this going to take long?" Shawn asked after only being in the room ten seconds.

"They didn't say," Henry said. Neither could sit; they paced around the room for a little while.

"Dad?" Shawn said after another few moments of silence. He turned towards Henry in profile, pretending to study an interesting crack in the wall.

"Yes, Shawn?"

"Did I ever— um— say thanks?"

Henry paused. Just standing there, Shawn looked, for a moment, as vulnerable as he had bound to that chair. Henry was relieved that Shawn was here— completely safe. He embraced Shawn tightly and Shawn let him. "You're my son," he said, unable to express anymore aloud.

"You didn't answer my question," Shawn mumbled, sounding meek.

The door opened. Shawn and Henry pulled back from each other, waiting expectantly for the person would should be coming in.

"Shawn?" Gus asked incredulously, standing two steps inside. "It's you? You're okay?"

Shawn smiled. "Yeah, it's me. I'm okay. Are you?"

Gus looked Shawn over— his face was bruised, his lips and mouth cut, his wrists wrapped with white gauze, and he seemed to have lost some weight, but there was a bright, almost mischievous, look in his best friend's eyes that Gus recognized. He ran towards him and tackled him into a hug. "I thought when the guard told me I was free to go, that it was some kind of dream. But god, that you're all right—" Gus pulled back. "I've been losing my mind with worry." He hugged Shawn again, tight enough so that Shawn gasped. "Why do you enjoy scaring the crap out of me?"

"I'm okay—" Shawn said, gasping. "Glad you missed me this much."

"I knew you'd get me out of here. You scared me so bad, Shawn."

"I'm okay," Shawn said for a third time. "I'm here."

Gus pulled back again, shaking his head at Shawn's smile. As he and Shawn bumped their fists together, Gus felt waves of relief wash away all of the fear. He finally seemed to notice that Henry was in the room. "Mr. Spencer." He looked Henry over, noting a few bruises on Henry's face. "You went to take the ransom on your own," Gus stated.

Henry sighed. "I wasn't alone."

Gus nodded. "Right— because you'd kidnapped Lassiter—"

"What?" Shawn jumped in, his eyes turning incredulously towards Henry.

"How did you know that?" Henry asked, raising his eyebrows. To Shawn he said, "I didn't kidnap Lassiter."

"Because Chief Vick and Juliet showed up with that note you'd written— and they assumed I knew something about it."

Henry held up his hand. "I sent them to you because I knew you could tell them stuff that I couldn't— because I'd made a promise to Shawn— and Lassiter— to not go to the police."

"Dad?" Shawn said, staring hard at Henry.

Henry looked a little sheepish. "Remember what I'd said at the station— that I'd tell you about it later?"

Shawn's mouth dropped open. "_That_ was the reason why Vick said you were in trouble?"

Henry looked from Shawn to Gus, who exchanged glances. He huffed. "Yes. Let's go outside— Gus, since you're free to go, I'm sure you'll want to get out of here." Henry opened the door out into the hallway they'd come from, Shawn following close at his heels.

"You're not going to change the subject," Shawn told him.

"Shawn, your wrists," Gus asked quietly, following Shawn down the hallway. He hated to think what Shawn must have gone through at the hands of these horrible people.

Shawn threw him back a small look with a few dashes of fear that was quickly replaced by an equally small smile. "I was tied up. For, um, four days." He swallowed. "They— kept bound to this chair, and—"

"You don't have to talk about it right now," Gus interrupted. "Sorry if I pushed."

Shawn shook his head, then turned away. Gus could tell he was upset, so he said, "I'm glad you're safe, Shawn. I didn't sleep at all after your father told me. I'm sorry if I forced you towards trouble."

Shawn turned. "What?"

Gus sighed. "Telling you not to drop the case—"

Shawn bit his lip. "No— you did the right thing, Gus. Lassiter was in real danger— he was nearly killed. We all came kind of close. Lassie especially though."

"He— _killed_?" Gus paused, his eyes wide. "Is he all right?"

Shawn nodded. "Yeah. It's all a long story. Maybe if he isn't dazed from all the painkillers, he can tell you how heroic I was." Shawn beamed while Gus stared at him with a furrowed brow. "Did I forget to mention that we're dropping by the hospital?"

"Can you take me home first? I would kind of like to shower, put on something less orange."

"But you smell so—" Shawn sniffed and then nodded. "Okay. Maybe that's a good idea."

They were outside now, with Henry several steps ahead of them, already unlocking the truck.

"Shawn, did I really see you hugging your father?" Gus asked.

"For the record, he was hugging me— and if you ever speak of it in public I will vehemently deny that it ever occurred." Shawn climbed in the truck ahead of Gus, so that he would be sitting in the middle. "So, Dad," he started immediately, "why don't you elaborate on this new life of yours on the dark side?"

Henry rolled his eyes, and started the truck. "Look, it's like I said— nothing."

"Then why did Vick yell at you in front practically the whole station?" Shawn asked. "For such a small woman, her voice really carries." He turned to Gus. "Too bad I couldn't make out all the words though."

Henry winced a little, pulling out of the parking lot. He sighed. "I was there at the hospital when that second call came in, Shawn— when that son of a bitch finally let me talk to you. I told Lassiter— and he insisted he was going to come with me. I tried to talk him out of it— you saw what he looked like— and I knew he was in so much pain he could barely stand." Henry's lips drew into a tight line. He glanced from the road. "Shawn, he said he was responsible for you— he was pissed they'd gone after you, and was damn determined that you were going to make it out of there safe— regardless if— if he didn't make it." Henry sighed.

_If he didn't make it._ Shawn tried to think of something to break the tension up in the cab, but then Henry spoke. He noticed Gus was staring out of the window. "That creep, Notte, threatened him in the hospital— it was horrible."

Shawn swallowed hard. "He— Notte— told me about that."

"I was there, Shawn— I heard the whole thing."

"What?" Shawn asked, stunned.

_I allowed that son of a bitch to hurt him._ Henry frowned, focusing hard on the road. "After that, I made Lassiter tell me everything he'd been holding back— and I realized what you had— how terrified he was."

"You _made_ him tell you?" Shawn interjected with slightly narrowed eyes. Did his father really possess _that_ brand of persuasion? "How did you get him to cooperate? Trying to make him tell me things was like trying to pull out a saber tooth tiger's teeth."

"I think the expression you're looking for is 'like pulling teeth', Shawn," Gus corrected gently.

"Well, well, that too," Shawn mumbled, offering up a lopsided grin.

Henry sighed. _Well, I slapped him, for one._ But neither Shawn nor Gus needed to know that. Henry instead explained about the Polaroid and how he more or less guilted Lassiter into coming clean. "It helped that he wanted to go— and would have gone alone—"

"He would have gone alone— to rescue me?" Shawn repeated. "And keep you safe too, Dad?" He turned towards Gus, explaining how beaten up Lassiter already was upon arrival.

"That's what he said."

"I missed a lot," Gus mumbled. He was enjoying the new day, seeing the sun from the outside, being free— and studying Shawn, he realized his best friend was doing the same thing. He looked towards Shawn and Henry; it was almost eerie that they weren't arguing.

"I'll fill you in, Gus— well, as much as you want to know."

* * *

Henry dropped Shawn and Gus at Gus's apartment. Shawn and Henry had already picked up Gus's personal affects from the SBPD police station yesterday. Gus dug his house keys out of the plastic bag, at his front door already.

"Maybe I'll see you there," Henry called out the window to Shawn. "And if not— bring Gus over for dinner tonight."

"Yeah, Dad, see ya." Shawn smiled; Henry turned his head, feeling the start of tears under his eyelids. Shawn's small laugh brought his face back to his son. "Don't worry about it, Dad. You know Gus is the safest driver in Santa Barbara." Shawn waved and then followed Gus up the porch stairs.

* * *

"Don't take this the wrong way," Gus said, dumping out the plastic bag on the kitchen table, "but it does it bother you that your father's not yelling at you?"

Shawn turned his head towards Gus and shrugged. "Not right now. I'm sure we'll be back on bad terms as soon as his worry for me wears off." He smiled and rolled his eyes.

Gus sighed. Shawn already had his hands on Gus's things, touching every object. Gus figured he should leave the room before Shawn started thumbing through his wallet. "I'm glad you're okay, buddy," Shawn called when Gus was halfway into the next room.

Gus tromped back, leaning in the doorway. "You too, Shawn."

"Sorry— I kind of promised you I'd be more careful. I tried."

Gus held up a hand. "All that matters is you're here— and I'm here, out of prison. And I get my record expunged again— so I can still look my parents in the eye at the next holiday they're in town. I'm going to shower."

Shawn nodded. After Gus left the room, Shawn got up and wandered, checking Gus's fridge. After getting a whiff of sour milk, he closed the door. Instead, he raided the pantry, stuffing his mouth with chips.

Gus returned twenty-five minutes later, cleaned up, shaved, and dressed in his own clothes. He handed Shawn a stack of pages protected by a clear plastic bag.

"What's this?" Shawn asked, staring from the offering to Gus's face.

"My second copy of the results," Gus told him.

"You had a second copy?" Shawn repeated, raising his eyebrows. "And you didn't tell _me_?"

Gus shrugged. "Don't ask me why I thought we might need a back up plan."

Shawn stared at Gus with awe. "We definitely need these, Gus," he said. "Notte burned the originals and that set of copies my dad brought."

"Notte?" Gus asked, blinking. "The woman? How did she get a hold of the originals?" Then he remembered that, in the truck, both Shawn and Henry had mentioned that Notte was a man.

"No," Shawn said, getting an unpleasant flash of Notte's and Donia's faces. He shivered. "I guess I've got a lot to tell you."

"Tell me when you're ready," Gus said, not wanting to push. _They could have their "share" time much later, over beer, Mexican food and multiple marathons of obscure 80s movies,_ he thought. Gus had things he wanted to tell, but not just yet. He'd been lucky— he kept to himself and no one bothered him. But his skin had taken on a paper thin quality— insubstantial. Gus had felt as if he no longer mattered, that the great plan was going on without him and he had been forgotten. It wasn't fair— he wasn't even guilty. After Henry had shown up with the horrible news about Shawn's disappearance, Gus shook at night instead of sleeping— alternating between crushing fear and blinding rage— his friend needed him but Gus couldn't be there.

Gus was overcome with a need to hug Shawn again, just to make sure he was— well, that both of them were, really— still here. Shawn was still seated; Gus threw his arms around his friend's shoulders and chest. Shawn protested with a minor squeak. Shawn was usually throwing himself— and Gus— headlong into danger, but this time, the danger had come to them, to all of them.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Shawn asked, patting at Gus's arms to get him to release. "You already hugged me twice today." He didn't want to say anything, but the squeezing was kind of hurting the bruises on his torso. "I'm here. I'm me. You got any pineapple that isn't rotting?"

Gus pulled back with a sigh. He was still Shawn, all right. Gus grinned. "Yeah, I missed you too, Shawn," he mumbled, pocketing his wallet and grabbing his keys from the table. "Come on, I'm driving."

* * *

Henry got to the hospital about thirty minutes or so before Vick and Juliet. He knocked on Lassiter's door before going in. "You're awake," Henry said, looking him over. Lassiter still had a pale, waterlogged look about him. It might be because of the detoxing he'd done after being given the expedient to remove the _Belladormita_ from his system.

Lassiter nodded. "You think I still look like hell, don't you?"

Henry laughed. "Yeah. You do. But you're alive— I know everyone will take that over any way you might look now. How do you feel?"

"Kinda numb." He sighed. "But better."

"I'm glad they've got you on the painkillers now, and that there was a solution for that crap— even if it made you so sick."

Lassiter nodded again. "I was much sicker with it still in my system— that's what they were trying to tell me."

"Yeah," Henry said. "Shawn and I were relieved when they told us." He eyed Lassiter. "This time you've got to stay here until you're healed. No more great escapes. Believe me, you'll have plenty of guards if you're at all worried." Lassiter tried to duck his head, until Henry added, "But you don't have to be. You've got people who care, kid." He smirked at his deliberate usage of that word.

Lassiter didn't look the least bit annoyed though. He looked up, smiling with some teeth. "I do. They say I'm pretty lucky."

"You've earned us, trust me. I just hope we've done the same for you." Henry huffed. "You can't tell anyone— especially Shawn— how emotional I've become."

"You and me, both," Lassiter said with another smile. "Your secret's safe. Oh, and by the way— thanks."

Henry waved it off, feigning embarrassment. "Someday, you may do the same for me." He settled into the chair, grabbing the remote for the TV and flipping it on.

Lassiter eyed the show he'd chosen. "_Cops_?" he asked.

"Yeah. Something else you wanted to watch?" Henry asked, crossing his arms. He wondered if Lassiter might insist he should leave, that he would be fine— but it seemed Carlton was really trying to enjoy this, "I have friends, people like me" thing. Henry knew there would be no way in hell Carlton was let anyone stay whom he thought pitied him; Henry didn't. Which worked out, because Henry was resolved not to leave even if Lassiter protested. True, Lassiter was out of danger, but Henry figured he'd have a long road of recovery ahead of him— the physical wounds being the fastest, of course, to mend.

"Have you seen this one before?" Lassiter asked, arranging his arms more comfortably against the pillows.

"Yeah— five or six times. Seven? You?"

"Maybe sixteen times."

"You want to watch something else, Carlton?"

"No. This is good."


	27. Epilogue: Burning A New Sunrise

**Epilogue**:** We're Burning A New Sunrise Into Yesterday's Skies**

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Any and all usual disclaimers still apply.

Author's Note: You made it, this is the last chapter! Thanks so much to everyone for reading and for all the wonderful reviews! :)

Special thanks to egorstandish1 for a particular "evil plot bunny" inspiration. :)

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* * *

They were paused outside out Lassiter's hospital room, talking over a few things before going into see him. Now that things were starting to look up, or similar to what they once were, both of them wondered if Lassiter would try to shoo them away, insisting he was fine. Juliet was resolved to be cheerful and not let her partner's possible sour temperament get to her; Vick, for her part, had resolved to be firm but friendly— though unyielding if necessary. This, the healing, it was going to be hard on him, both knew. Neither wanted to crowd him, but neither were ready to drop their concern, whether it manifested as kind words or a touch, or a flash or two of overprotectiveness.

"Chief, you're not really going to tell Carlton about the clippings and photographs we discovered in Notte's house?" Juliet asked.

Karen sighed, and pursed her lips. "I haven't decided. I think he deserves to know, possibly sooner than later, so he can work on getting passed it. Would you want to know?"

Juliet fidgeted, trying to put herself in both her partner's and Vick's positions. Would it be too much of a burden for Lassiter to hear? Or would he be pissed off and betrayed if it was kept from him? She sighed. "I can't answer that— I'm not sure if I would want to know, at least so soon. But for Carlton—" She sighed again. "I think it would be wise to tell him right away."

Vick studied her, then nodded. "A no more secrets policy."

Juliet half smiled. There would always be secrets, but at least, in this case, coming clean was for the best.

"Because, god knows, all he's been through—"

The two women nodded at each other, the burning, admirable look in both sets of eyes nearly identical.

* * *

"I'm going to get some coffee," Henry told Lassiter after they'd watched almost two full episodes of _Cops_.

Lassiter nodded. "You know, you don't have to hang around here if you don't want to," he told Henry, looking down at his bandaged hands.

Henry smiled. "I know that. You want some coffee?"

"S— sure," Lassiter said. "Black, four sugars."

"You got it."

After Henry left, Lassiter switched off the TV. He felt tired, but didn't want to close his eyes. The events that had transpired since his rescue— and Spencer's— almost seemed more unreal than past two weeks. He found himself studying his badge in a manner similar to when he had first earned it; as if, if he didn't keep a close eye on it, it might just vanish into thin air, as if it were only a figment to begin with. Lassiter was replaying Vick's words again, a little lost in yesterday's conversation to really register that the door to his room was opening.

The man who entered was unexpected, but smiled just as Lassiter let out a straggled cry— one loud enough to draw the attention of his colleagues outside. He was too shocked to be embarrassed by his outburst.

The older man continued his smile, telling Juliet and Vick, who had rushed in, Juliet with her gun drawn, that he and Lassiter were old friends. "It's okay," he said, nodding. He held up his hands to show he wasn't a threat, and didn't protest when Juliet patted him down. "Don't you remember me, kid?" he asked in a tone of feigned hurt, stepping closer to the bed.

"Carlton?" Karen's voice rang out. She found it a little unusual that Lassiter was allowing this man to address him so informally. Despite Lassiter's being younger than she, she would never consider calling him "a kid". The man, a little pudgy around the middle, was blocking her view of Lassiter's expression. Lassiter didn't answer her, his eyes widened, studying the face of the man before him. His throat constricted.

Lassiter worked hard to push himself upright, fumbling for the remote which also controlled the bed. He struggled, trying to ignore the cast and the brace so he could use his arms. He grunted at the mild ache felt through the steady flow of meds at his quick shifting. The breath was seeping out of him; the heart monitor spiked and his pulse raced. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, especially not after— _"I killed him quickly. A shot to the throat. A mercy kill."_

"I'm not a ghost, you know."

"He said— he said you were dead," Lassiter finally managed. His voice was steady but low, awed, disbelieving. "He said he'd killed you—"

Juliet exchanged a glance with Vick. Juliet finally lowered her gun and secured it back it its holster.

"Take it easy," Adam Marks said, the kind smile still on his lips and in his eyes. His brown hair had grayed over completely, as had the whiskers on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deeper. He looked his former partner over with a low whistle. "It takes more than rumors to kill me." He raised an appraising eyebrow. "Apparently, for you as well."

"Carlton, you know this man?" Vick cut in, leaning around Marks to catch his eye. Lassiter saw how worried she was; what if this person were another stalker who wanted his blood? He felt relieved at her concern, and let his muscles relax, dropping back against the raised pillows. He couldn't believe it— that bastard Notte had lied.

"Yes," Lassiter said. "Chief, O'Hara, this is Adam Marks—" Lassiter gave him a sideways look. "What's your rank now, sir?"

Marks smiled. "Sergeant. Retired."

"Marks?" Juliet repeated. "You were Carlton's partner when— the Cavaliere case?"

Marks nodded, letting out another low whistle. "Been a long time since I heard that name."

"Chief Karen Vick," Karen said, shaking his hand. "This is Detective Juliet O'Hara, Lassiter's partner," she said, introducing Juliet. As Marks shook her hand, giving her a warm look that reminded her the way Charlie had looked at her when he'd brought up Lassiter's old case file, Juliet apologized for pulling her gun on him.

"No apologies necessary for watching out for your partner. Especially one who's been through hell and lived to tell about it."

After the three of them exchanged introductions, he let his eyes rest on Lassiter for a minute. "You know, you could have called me if you were in trouble, son."

Lassiter, Vick and Juliet all flushed at the same time, Lassiter squirming a little under the sheets. Both Karen and Juliet briefly studied opposite walls. Marks gazed from one face to the next. "I see."

"We all make mistakes," Vick said finally. She gave Lassiter a pointed looked with an undercurrent of an apology. "How did you find out about this?" Karen asked Marks. When Marks said through the news, Karen swore. Juliet didn't look at all surprised, but Lassiter was.

"It's a pretty big thing to keep away from the media, even with precautions," Marks said. "Members of the Cavaliere family resurfacing after ten years— stalking a cop— fraud— drugs— abductions— attempted murder— murder." He stopped when he saw how white Lassiter's face had gone. "Sorry, kid."

Lassiter shook his head, trying clear the haunted look that had settled in his eyes.

"So Cavaliere's brother said he'd killed me? When was this?"

"When he had his Glock to my face," Lassiter said, and Marks winced visibly. "He'd broken my wrist, drugged me; I wasn't myself. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew he was capable." He noticed Juliet clenching her fists at her sides, her knuckles turning white.

Marks nodded slowly. "I heard all about that, kid. Coward used you as a shield." He sighed. "Please, Carlton, call me if there's a next time. I've still got your back." He guffawed. "Even at my old age."

Lassiter looked a little uncomfortable, turning his head away from them for some moments.

"He couldn't call you," Juliet piped up, "because they had warned him after drugging him that talking to the police was off limits."

Lassiter nodded imperceptibly, his head still turned from them. _And because of the shame,_ he thought, wondering over his intensified paranoia that had made the consideration of contacting his old partner even worse that confiding in Spencer or trying to get a pissed off Vick to believe him.

"Really did a number on you, didn't they? Christ, you look like hell."

Lassiter turned back towards Marks' warm brown eyes. He cracked a smile at Marks' teasing. "I may look like hell, but I'm living, still."

"You had better be. You've got work to do." He squeezed Lassiter's shoulder once. "Justice to serve." Marks shook his head. "It's good that you've always been a fighter— titanium nerves and all. But, hell, I could shoot that dirtbag for messing with you."

"I did," Vick mumbled behind Marks. Marks threw a quick look at her, and she nodded.

"I did too," Juliet added. She offered her partner a smile. Lassiter actually smiled back, awed at his junior partner.

"Bastards will never get near you again," Marks continued, a determined edge to his voice, catching Vick's eyes. Juliet nodded. "You've got back-up now."

"That's absolutely correct," Vick agreed. They were silent for a few moments; Carlton wondered if they wished they could erase his pain with a magic swipe to the past. They couldn't; what they could do was act overly protective of him— which he tried not to mind, and then help him through the tough stuff.

Lassiter pressed his lips into another small smile. "Thanks. I'm— okay."

The door opened without a knock, and Shawn waltzed in, catching everyone's eye. He stopped. "Was I supposed to bring a gift?" He turned. "Gus, why didn't you tell me?"

"I've been a little busy," Gus said. "Will you move?" He shoved Shawn away from the door so he could actually get into the room. He sniffed. "Besides, I remembered." He handed the packet to Vick.

"What's this?" she asked. Juliet looked over her shoulder after throwing a pleasant smile in Shawn's and Gus's direction.

"My second set of copies," Gus told her, gesturing towards Lassiter. "The test results from the glass."

"What?" Vick said, opening the plastic bag. She and Juliet looked them over, open mouthed.

"I was always the smart one," Gus said, smiling at Shawn, who just smirked back.

Gus caught his first glimpse of Lassiter and tried to keep not to look too green. "Guster," Lassiter said, eyeing him. "You're a free man."

Gus nodded. "So are you, I've heard."

Lassiter smiled. "It's true." He paused. "You can say I look like hell— everyone else has."

Gus shook his head, feeling an odd relief that Shawn's determination had paid off— it hadn't really hit him until this moment— Shawn was really a hero. "I'm glad you're okay, Detective," he said politely.

Shawn eyed Marks in a similar manner to Vick's. He slid his eyes to Lassiter's, then took a determined step towards Adam. "Lassie, is this guy bothering you?"

Lassiter sighed. Marks laughed. "You got some pretty good friends here, kid. I apologize, Head Detective. You earned that title and I owe you my respect." Lassiter tried to shrug, trying to be nonchalant at his former partner's praise. Adam gave Lassiter an approving look with an attached smile and then introduced himself to Shawn and Gus.

"Kid?" Gus mouthed to Shawn.

"Right?" Shawn mouthed back, a quizzical expression raising his eyebrows.

"I know," Lassiter said to Marks. "I'm fortunate, to know these people. Even those two, over there," nodding at Shawn and Gus. He made sure he looked in everyone's eyes at least once. Vick looked a little mushy, but was keeping it together; O'Hara was dabbing her eyes with her fingertips. Shawn wore a look of mock surprise. It still astounded him how fearful they had been of losing him.

Shawn beamed. "That's right, Lassie, you're stuck with us." He draped an arm around Gus's shoulder. Gus swatted it off, playfully, a look of his old self gleaming in his brown eyes. Shawn just chuckled.

"Bet he doesn't feel so fortunate now," Gus whispered to Shawn. "Now that you pointed that out to him."

Shawn rolled his eyes at Gus but held his smile. "I think you'd be wrong about that, buddy." He flicked his head in Lassiter's direction. Despite all of Lassiter's injuries, the detective wore a small smile full of gratitude.

"Geez," Gus muttered. "Was I really gone that long?"

* * *

Lassiter parked his red sedan in his designated parking spot, shut off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. He sighed under his breath, staring for a moment through the windshield at the Santa Barbara Police Station. It looked solid and sturdy; it looked the same as ever. He felt relieved; if the outside hadn't changed, then it was just as likely the inside was just as busy and flurried as— as always. He needed this— this was his life, his purpose.

He'd spent nearly two weeks in the hospital, and then another week and a half in his apartment on bed rest. It would take his right wrist several more weeks to heal, but for once in his life, he'd been very careful and had taken it easy when it came to his injuries. He felt he'd earned it; besides, not a single one of them was about to let him not take it easy. He'd grumbled and frowned about it— for their benefit, and was the tough Head Detective they'd known; as if they couldn't see his smile or the softened look in his eyes, his wordless gratitude. Even Shawn knew they didn't have to be psychic to "see" that.

He knew they were concerned, but they never once treated him like he was broken, or a child; they were there as support, as the friends they were to him— they respected and admired him for his strength, for positioning himself between the others and the threat— for facing his fears despite his lack of physical and emotional control. His apartment didn't take on a crowded feel; while he did value his private time and space, he hadn't wanted to admit he was, at least for a few days, haunted by the ghosts of his old fears. They had become shadow selves, simple worry or anxiety; the space was so empty in those first few minutes after they had all gone. He wouldn't let them say it aloud, but he knew they thought of him as heroic, a true leader. His ego swelled anyway.

After a few days, Vick had ordered him to start therapy sessions— with a psychiatrist other than Dr. Rhodes. Physical therapy was to follow, once his right arm was out of the cast, as well as for the left.

Lassiter set his face into his natural tight expression and got out of the car. His right wrist was still in its cast, but the left one had healed much faster. The bruises were almost all faded, and the cuts nearly entirely closed up. He sighed one more time, then started forward, chiding himself for nearly smoothing out his jacket. He knew he had no reason to be nervous; though it had been over a month since he'd been here. Already early September, though the air still smelled of late summer. It was still in Vick's hands should he sit on desk duty for the next couple weeks or return to active duty immediately. He'd done another session with a police psychologist; which he felt went well. Despite everything he had been through, he took extreme comfort in two factors: the _Belldormita_ was gone forever from his blood, and he'd learned that he'd earned every single friendship and offer of protection— because of the person he was— not one of them would just let him go. He was not alone.

"Lassie!" In spite of himself, Lassiter's eye twitched with mild annoyance. He stopped with a sigh, and turned towards the voice. "You're back!"

Lassiter nodded. He winced internally, wondering again if this was another sign that told him things were going to be weird, once he went inside. He tried for his old gruffness. "What are _you_ doing here?" But Spencer just laughed.

"Got a potential case, Lassie," Shawn said, rolling his eyes. "Not that Gus and I wouldn't just come here to chair race or borrow office supplies." Shawn snickered as Lassiter rolled his eyes, and tried to feign disinterest. He figured the gears were turning in Lassiter's head; it was his first day back and it probably ate at him that Shawn had shown up to taunt him with some case.

Carlton sighed, and squinted ahead. The station loomed, leering, but only for a half second. He felt the slightest flutter of worry or nervousness— but that was all there was to the small feelings; almost a dot or a speck compared to the vivid three dimensional fears that had completely taken over him. Both emotional reactions and memories had mostly returned to what they were in the state of his pre-kidnapping. Lassiter was beyond words relieved that even the smallest fear no longer sent him into a tailspin to crash and then burn or explode. He was grateful to be able to retrieve memories, even the ones of his troubles, with the fading colors or grainy blacks and whites of past events. Over time, he hoped, the specific memories of his ordeal would take on a gray, washed-out quality, so faded in places they might be too hard to make out (what was that event? Did it really frighten me so?), (though they would likely always bite at him with the smallest tint of red).

Lassiter hated to admit that therapy was helping as well. He knew there would always be a dividing line— the state in which he existed pre-kidnapping, and then that of after. He had to cope— he couldn't just swept it all under the rug as if had never happened. Sometimes, he still had dreams; but no more unwanted memories returned. The dreams, lately, were reruns of Notte holding him at gunpoint on the pier while the SBPD advanced. He would sometimes awaken ashen and scared, and would have to pat himself down to for reassurance that he was really okay— that he had been rescued. Still, of these dreams and thoughts of them, the fear remained minor; he was usually able to settle back down to sleep quickly. It also helped he had his locks changed— all those little material details that had before unnerved him— those were all things his friends had helped him fix. Before, he never fully appreciated a rush of fear— then its quick descent. He marveled at how the panic no longer lingered, how it was easier and easier to talk himself out of paranoia.

Especially since, just yesterday, he'd received a letter. It had come to him mixed in with his other mail, an ordinary envelope, gray, with a stamp. The return address was CIW, the California Institution for Women.

He might have just tossed it on his coffee table, just another envelope among junk mail, bills, gun interest catalogs— had it not reeked, its heady scent wafting up as he sorted through his daily haul, of vanilla.

Carlton was relieved, for the first time in weeks, that he was alone in the apartment. He had dropped everything as if they were much too slippery to hold. Was it a trigger, was it reaching back, back, into him, twisting in him, making him tremble with pain the same way, the demanding lust? Near death? Lassiter calmed down relatively quickly, taking a few deep breaths, squatting easily without red thoughts or shaking fingers to retrieve the scattered pile. He dumped the rest of the ordinary mail on the table, and stared at her letter.

It was only paper. He knew it couldn't hurt him. Especially if he never opened it.

Lassiter had toyed with many ways of disposing of it— crumpling, tearing, burning, even shooting it to confetti on the range. Instead, he'd slipped into his jacket, not because he wanted to keep it close to heart, but because he was resolved to let someone know he'd received it. This was progress; the demanding Spencers— who had both slapped him for keeping secrets— they might agree. After duty, or on a break, Lassiter made plans to drop by the post office and take care of this— he hoped this was the last letter he would ever get from Donia Notte.

He had to let Vick see it— this may be used as evidence, if not for this case then at least for a restraining order. There was a chance she would say he was making something out of nothing— Carlton shook his head. No, that was the old Vick. She would help him, if he asked. But he hoped she wouldn't fret over this too much. Looking over the envelope gave him the echoes of an ache— but the fear his body been forced into no longer existed inside his mind.

"What's that?" Spencer asked, peering at an envelope in Lassiter's hand. Lassiter gasped under his breath; he hadn't realized he had taken it out of his jacket's pocket. "CIW? That's the state's only all-women prison, right?" Lassiter nodded tightly. It was Shawn's turn to gasp. Now that he thought it, he had overheard some cops mention Donia being the first to crack— and confess. "Seriously?"

Lassiter sighed; he didn't see any point of keeping it from Spencer. "It came in with yesterday's mail."

"Dude," Shawn breathed, eyeing the envelope as if he could see inside. He broke into a small grin. "You're sharing? Lassie, that's great."

Lassiter grumbled.

"You know, if Vick sees that, there will be yelling," Shawn told him.

Lassiter nodded. "Yeah, I figure that. I thought about just throwing it away, pretending I never got it—"

"It's unopened."

"I couldn't," Lassiter mumbled.

Shawn nodded. "Dude, you don't have to _tell_ me— she's—"

"I know." Lassiter narrowed his eyes for a moment, studying Shawn. "Spencer, did you really go for her throat?"

Shawn sucked in a quick breath. He wasn't sure how much he should admit— except he'd already done it in a roomful of cops. "Uh, yeah. Kind of."

Lassiter dropped his voice, just in case anyone could be listening. He scolded himself for this minor fumble of paranoia, but continued. "Don't tell the Chief I said this, but thanks for that." Lassiter took in a deep breath. Despite receiving the letter, and his decision to bring it in, he hadn't really wanted to dwell on Donia or any of the Nottes— Cavalieres. But he knew that, just because the _Belladormita_ had fled his system with the detox, the other unlearning of the upsetting responses at any mention or thought of them was going take longer. "She'd probably make mention of it to my therapist."

"We can be therapy buddies, Lassie," Shawn said a little too cheerfully. Lassiter offered him a dubious look. "Chief Vick and my dad told me I was barred from cases until I agreed to see someone on a weekly basis until things, you know—"

Lassiter nodded, failing to mention he'd already discussed this mandatory therapy for Shawn with Henry. "It's annoying, but it— it can't really hurt," he admitted.

Shawn kicked at the ground.

"You could— uh— I'd listen," Lassiter heard himself saying to Shawn. He winced, and looked away when he caught a slightly amused look breaking out on Shawn's face. He wanted to tell Spencer to forget it, but he knew he couldn't. "I mean, we both went through similar—"

Shawn grinned. He didn't say anything, just nodding instead.

"There's— I—" Lassiter paused, looking once at the station doors, watching the uniforms open the doors to go in. He hadn't said it before, but he owed Shawn thanks. He couldn't put it off any longer. "Spencer— you saved my life," Lassiter told him, ignoring the smugness on the Shawn's face. "More than once—"

"Lassie, you're making me blush," Shawn smirked.

Lassiter ground a foot into the pavement, pressed his lips into a hard line for a moment, but then continued. "Can't you just accept this, Spencer?" Lassiter snapped, looking Shawn in the eye. "I'm trying to say—"

Shawn crossed his arms, feigning mild anger. "My dad told me what you did."

Lassiter's brow knitted. "What are you talking about?"

"How you made him take you out of the hospital despite your injuries—" Lassiter started to protest, but Shawn cut him off. "How you put yourself in danger to protect us— even though you probably knew that psycho wanted to kill you."

"I was only returning the favor," Lassiter said, offering Shawn a meaningful look.

"So, I saved your life and you saved mine— I guess that means we're _even_, then, Lassie," Shawn said with a smile and a gleam in his eye.

"Even?" Lassiter repeated. Any other time he may have argued that it wasn't possible for them to be even— he was a cop with training and experience, a determined hard worker, and Shawn was a— he shook his head slowly. Any of the negative or unwholesome adjectives he could usually find to describe Spencer weren't there. All he could see was the brave— albeit a little crazy, always putting himself in dangerous situations— kid who'd managed to save his life. There was that extra understanding— knowing— since they'd both been in the hands of same criminals, and they both been hurt, terrorized. Lassiter wondered if this should unnerve him, serve to unhinge him, but instead, he felt a strange but not unwelcome affinity for Spencer— they'd both endured— and survived. They were standing outside of the Santa Barbara Police Station as if it were any ordinary day— and it was. This younger man standing here had made it so, and it was true, Lassiter had returned the favor by making an offering of himself for danger. Shawn was a decent friend, he decided. Though, he wasn't going to say it aloud. Maybe next time, if there was one. Lassiter nodded to Shawn, with a genuine smile. "Even it is, Spencer."

**The End**


End file.
